February 28, 1883
I was accepted to medical school, my dream. I was set to learn how to heal the sick and
help the injured. I showed up at the
university ready to become a doctor. Six
months later here I am, lying in a bed of the teaching hospital on campus, in
too much pain to move. I always knew
that the tuberculosis I contracted as a young child would eventually cause me
more problems in the future. I just
didn’t know that they would show up in this ironic and ugly way. Now instead of a student at the medical
school I am a patient, in a bed all day, while my former classmates come in to
observe me and check my pain levels.
They are sending me to a different hospital for a surgery
to straighten my spine, although the doctors seem confident about the results I
will have my optimism remains low. I
have been bedridden for nearly six months due to my spine deformity, and it
seems unrealistic that an operation will fix it. Even if it does I am not ignorant, I know
that I will be left weak and fragile.
Two things I have no desire to be.
As I keep telling myself, though, anything will be better than lying in
bed twenty-four hours a day. It is
dreadfully boring and I try, with little success, to entertain myself with
thoughts of what I will do when I am healed.
Currently my plans are to go to Europe and see the world, finally get
out of this bed and do something with my life.
Until then, I will be here.
No comments:
Post a Comment