Ten years since 2016. And that realization tells me one thing, we need to talk about nine years ago for a hot minute.
Nine years ago, an acquaintance gave me an expiration date I did not appreciate. He told me with arrogance, I might add, that I would have one year to talk about my coma. After that, I’d need to drop it.
One year. AS IF!
As if trauma comes with a warranty on the box. As if recovery has a pretty tidy bow. As if grief follows a calendar. I remember thinking how confident he sounded. What did he know about waking up on life support? What did he know about the length of my road? So here’s my answer, nine years later:
I see your “one year” and I raise you nine more. Now here is a whole book about it.
Healing is not a straight line and survival rewires your brain. So does prescription Ketamine, by the way. Medical trauma does not dissipate when it becomes inconvenient for someone else’s comfort. Sometimes people notice my tracheostomy scar and ask what happened. I give them the abridged version. Almost every time, they say the same thing: “You should write a book about that.”
Little do they know … writing may not be my greatest talent, but it is a passion for me. I’ve been keeping notes since day 43. Since breath returned. One thing I know I’ve learned through all of this is we are all on journeys of grief and healing. All of us. Some are loud. Some are quiet. Some leave scars you can see. Some don’t.
If you ever feel tempted to put a timeline on someone else’s pain, recovery, or story, just don’t. Healing does not expire. And neither do our voices.
Thank you for being with me on this road.
Love,
Amanda