When I wake under a laughable cliche of starched white sheets for the same day in a row I realise my recovery is not complete by any stretch of the elastic nightgown although my operation is complete and a success.
It feels so odd, this futile blank space that is my days, after the turbulent lead up to my admission. I can bearly remember that mass of days, that hive of bustle and activity, when the world was not a small hospital room and I was a different person.
But now, although I am in pain, and my mouth feels cotton and my bones feel brittle and my new skin feels delicate and my stitches tingle, I know that I am right now. No longer an impersonation.
I twitch the sheet and stare down at my two new assets, heaving beneath my nightdress, Mills and Boon style.
I'm the princess I want to be.
This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: recovery, impersonation, turbulent, different, and futile.
Image courtesy of brykmantra.