It’s Tomorrow Again. And It’s Not Better Yet

The night seemed endless.

At two in the morning, if I’d known where my phone was, I would have called an ambulance. The problem was that I barely knew where I was. I only knew that something was terribly wrong.

Somehow, I still had the presence of mind to realise that I wasn’t dressed for a hospital stay—and that I had no idea where my small suitcase was, let alone how I might pack it.

There’s no food in the house, and I can’t make it to the door to collect an Uber Eats delivery. Apparently, I’m going to lose a little more weight, although this is certainly not the diet plan I would recommend.

At least the fever has broken.

I desperately need a shower, but who can help me? Lying down hurts. Sitting up hurts. I’m hungry, exhausted and in serious need of coffee.

Dammit. Another thing to come back from.

During the darkest hours, I felt so unwell that the only reason I knew it wasn’t the end was that I didn’t see my son’s face.

The space in my chest where my heart lives hurts the most. I keep retracing my steps, trying to understand how I arrived at this particular point. 💔

It’s tomorrow again—and it’s not better yet.