Those days were a cycle of waking up, being sick, and falling back asleep again. Every time I opened my eyes, a wave of nausea would rise up inside me. The pain and discomfort were constant, like a dark cloud wrapped tightly around me. My mother was there, her presence a quiet beacon of comfort in the chaos, yet the feeling of helplessness remained overwhelming. The days blurred into one another, dissolving into a hazy sequence of pain, exhaustion, and brief moments of awareness that never seemed to last long enough to hold onto.
I lay in a tilting bed, an ingenious contraption that shifted position every four hours. One moment I was lying on my stomach, staring down at the floor, the next I was on my back, staring endlessly at the ceiling. By then I was back in the ward, and the stain from a leak in the ceiling had become so familiar I could have drawn it from memory. Every crack, every imperfection was etched into my mind. I was fitted with a plaster corset that began just below my chest and extended all the way down to my leg. It had zippers along the side so the top half could be removed for washing, after which I would be carefully turned onto my stomach so the bottom half could be taken off. It became a precise, almost mechanical routine—one that left little room for dignity, yet somehow became normal.
There was a male nurse who, whenever he was on shift, seemed to brighten the entire hospital. He was funny, effortlessly so, and had a way of making everyone laugh. I carry warm memories of him; he was a light in those dark days. There was also a Greek girl in the same ward as me, and in the evenings we would share jokes, laughing far too loudly for the liking of the nurses, who would repeatedly come in to tell us to go to sleep. Those small moments of laughter felt like tiny rebellions against the heaviness surrounding us.
The orthopaedist had a habit of walking in during washing time, even when the curtains were drawn. One time, a nurse firmly called out, “Doctor, we’re washing here—please wait outside.” For the first time, I felt someone standing up for me, as if there were still boundaries, even in a place where so much of me felt exposed. It felt like reclaiming a small piece of my dignity.
At night, there was no real rest. Whether you were asleep or not, someone would always come in to check something, adjust something, inject something. The rhythm of the hospital never paused—there were no weekends, no sleeping in, no moments where time slowed down. Everything continued in a fixed pattern, uninterrupted, a never-ending cycle of care and discomfort where personal space seemed to disappear entirely.
My Brigitte Kaandorp friend visited often, always bringing something special with her. One time, she brought a card from the entire class, filled with messages from everyone. Even friends from the youth club had written funny or encouraging notes. It meant so much. She also made cassette tapes for me, filled with music, including many songs by Tracy Chapman. I played those tapes every single day—they became my anchor in those endless hours.
From the very first day in the hospital, the smoking room became part of my routine. It was such a strange place, where parents shared their stories and laughter echoed in between. It offered a kind of relief, a moment of normality in an otherwise intense and stressful time.
When another X-ray of my back was taken, I didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary. But later that day, the orthopaedist came in with unexpectedly good news: the second operation would not be necessary. Everything looked stable and strong enough. He believed this would be sufficient to support my spine. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief, a deep, almost indescribable happiness. On the very day the second surgery had originally been scheduled, I was allowed to go home instead. I still had to remain in bed for three months, but I could do that at home. My mother wanted me there, under her care. Even though others advised against it and warned her about how difficult it would be, she remained determined. Her support gave me the courage to step into this next phase of recovery.
After the operation, I noticed that my concentration and memory were no longer what they had been before. An eight-hour surgery under full anaesthesia leaves its mark. My body felt drained, and my mind felt dulled. Postoperative cognitive dysfunction—that’s what they call it, I later learned. It can take weeks, sometimes months, to return to yourself again. I wasn’t able to pick up my schoolwork, even though lessons were offered in the hospital. I told myself that maybe, once I was home, I would be able to find my way back to it. But the emotional impact was just as heavy. The combination of physical pain and the long recovery weighed on me deeply. I often felt anxious, and at times, profoundly depressed.
☕️ A Cup of Comfort
Dear you,
Maybe you lay there too, still,
tied to weights and expectations.
You stared at a ceiling you knew better than your own face,
and wondered if anyone knew you were there.
You just wanted to go back to school,
see your friends, laugh,
smell chalk on the board instead of disinfectant.
But the days came in waves of pain,
and the nights were not dark
but endlessly bright with sorrow.
And still…
you endured.
Maybe you listened to music,
wrote invisible stories on the inside of your heart.
You held onto your dignity in small ways—
a glance, a joke, a quiet act of defiance.
You were brave,
even when no one saw it.
So here, now, a warm cup for you.
With all the softness you missed back then.
Because you have survived more
than most will ever understand.
And still…
you rise. ❤️
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