IT’S ALL REAL. All the words I’ve written, all the tears I’ve cried, all the pain I’ve faced.
All the nurses, all the IV drips, Dr. L, all the visits to the ER, all the blood transfusions, all the white coats. Dr. K, the vomit buckets, the pills, the tubes, my fake boob, the wet T-shirts, the ladyfingers, the scans, the blood counts, Dr. N, the medical files, all the baldies. My own bald head.
They are all real. Lance, Jur, Oscar, Marco, Chantal.
All the cards, all the phone calls, all the visitors, all the flowers, all the care, all the love, all the sadness, all the worried looks. Those, too, are all real.
Dad, Mom, Sis. So close to me the entire time.
All the meditation attempts, all the organic food shops, all the tomato juice with lemon, all the green tea, all the beetroot, all the seeds and miso soup, a little Jesus. One hundred percent real.
All the wigs, the last hairs I plucked painlessly from my scalp, the last of my pubic hair, which at first I left as some sort of statement but later pulled out. My scars, the destroyed arteries in my right arm, my trusty IV pole, my hospital bed. Real, real, real.
Stella, Daisy, Sue, Blondie, Platina, Uma, Pam, Lydia, Bebé. Real.
And now? I’ve been given a second chance. It feels so unreal but it’s the most real of all. I can’t wait to get up and start living again. First destination? Hong Kong.