For Feb 17, 2009

Feb 17, 2003. 

That was 6 years and 3 days ago. This year, I'm late again.

My name didn't matter. I was Room 12 Bed 4. 

I always make it a point to remember this day. Because that's when I learnt about life. That's when I experienced how it was like to live. And appreciate total physical freedom. 

My buddy back in college had introduced the weblog (better known as a blog now) to me back then but I hadn't the foresight to blog about my experience back then. Plus, I had to pay $1 per hour to go online in the hospital. 

Oftentimes, when I look back and wonder how far I've come, I end up with a huge heap if "what ifs". 

What if...

I never agreed to go under the knife?

I simply become history (you know.. expire and get a tag in the morgue)?

I never woke up?

all my friends knew I was gonna be cut up and might leave them?

my surgeon didn't become my surgeon (and somebody else did)?

there wasn't a SARs outbreak at that moment?

the nurses hated me and we never befriended each other?

(certain people--fill in the names) came along and visited me?

my parents couldn't afford the surgery?

the surgical scar turned out unsightly?

life was like an RPG game (e.g. Final Fantasy), where you can save at a particular checkpoint and come back to it when you die? So every segment in between the checkpoints will be a perfect one. 

... ...

Every year, on Feb 16, I'd drown myself with tons and tons of such question... till I drift to sleep and wake up the next day.

Sometimes, of course, tears do well up. I can't figure out if it's self pity or whether I love myself too much. 

Maybe I'm a perfectionist who can tolerate no imperfection. Maybe I'm born a thinker. Maybe I just isn't tired enough to hit the pillow and shut down. 

Anyhow. Whatever. 

The memory plays tricks on us sometimes. I forgot certain things that happened back then already. 

Some call this selective memory loss. Sometimes I prefer to call it getting on with life. 

I love details. Especially details like these. But they hold me back. So I guess I've subconsciously chosen to leave them behind, so I move on with a lighter, cheerier heart. 

Indeed. 

Mum asks if I've really been brave. Or was that simply a facade. 

I give the politically correct answer. Largely because the politically incorrect answer doesn't hold much truth. 

I've learnt to rationalise things from the medical and physiological point of view, I figured. 

Detach all negative feelings associated with falling ill, stay cheerful and get on with life. 

It helps me focus better on getting well. It's been working well so far. 

Honestly, I never thought I'd make it this far. I thought I'd throw in the towel. 

I wouldn't mind actually. Though my parents' hearts would shatter if I ever said this. 

Back then, I thought since every sucked right now, I might as well seek an exit and opt for a fresh start. 

On hindsight, that'd be silly. 

If I did give up, I definitely will never meet certain people. Our paths will never cross and we'll simply be individual, separate entities. 

Life creates wonders of its own. It leaves me with alot of "what ifs" but somehow, I still love it.