Six Months Later, I’m Living Again — And I Still Don’t Know What to Tell My Daughter
The surgery was a success.
Six months have passed, and for the first time in years, I’m not tethered to a machine three times a week.
I can make plans without calculating them around a chair number and a treatment slot.
I can drink coffee without feeling like every decision needs permission.
I can sleep without the constant awareness that my life depends on a schedule I don’t control.
My daughter re-entered my life recently.
She showed up crying, apologizing, saying she didn’t realize how bad it had gotten.
I listened.
I didn’t reward the absence with instant forgiveness.
But I also didn’t slam the door.
