there is no time left, for me. [let's stay with each other, for as long as we can.] i want to give up, and just say how tired i am. [stay with me. i am here, with you.] there is no way i can say all of the things i wanted to say. [it's in my hands. what it can be, is anything.] i have to go. my time is up. [i need you. let's move forward, together.] i didn't get any sleep last night, or the night before, or really since i've been here, and now that i think about it, i can't seem to remember sleeping at home, either. it is time to sleep. [stay with me. i am still here, with you.] i brought from last time my two bandages, both over two years old, and after wearing one for the past week, with the clean one laid out my bed in front of me, i stared at the dirty one, and decided to throw it away. [it's still in my hands. what it can be, is anything.] i only have one bandage now. i'm wearing it on the outside of my shirt. it is the only thing i need. [i still need you. let's move forward, together.] i sacrificed everything to come here, and then, i had to do it again. i got everything i wanted, except it didn't matter. i knew i was unhappy, i thought for certain it could be better, but there was nothing i could do. i had to go home. [it's still in my hands. what it can be, is anything.] i had to come back. [stay with me. i am still here, with you.] i had to wait for a few days. now, my chest, under the bandage, is covered in permanent marker. a printout of my x-ray, is covered with the penmanship of two individuals. [i still need you. let's move forward, together.] my surgery is today, in a few hours. two nurses see a copy of the x-ray, and ask me what certain drawings mean. i tell them that part is a mesh, but they don't understand what the word means. there is nothing left to do, but wait. [stay with me. i am still here, with you.] i haven't even explained what is going to happen today to my parents. [stay with me. i am still here, with you.] when i was young, for some reason, i thought a lot about my parents' death. i would lay in bed late at night and become overwhelmed with sadness at the thought of their loss. maybe this sounds horrible, but i don't feel the same way anymore. i think about what i would say and their funerals, and if it wouldn't upset every one of their friends and family, the only thing i can think of to say is, "i am here because of them. they are gone—i am still here." is it possible to move forward by going backward? [stay with me. i am still here, with you.] my first roommate was a german guy in his thirties, here for bar removal. i was perfectly nice and cordial with him, but between me and you i thought he was a real douchebag. his girlfriend came to visit him late at night, and she laid in his bed beside him while the two of them sucked each others' faces right next to me while i pretended to sleep. they are in love, and it disgusts me. needing another person so desperately, individually, they must be weak. [i still need you. let's move forward, together.] weakness results in pain and instability, which must be eradicated. [it's still in my hands. what it can be, is anything.] the only way, is to go back under the knife. [stay with me. i am still here, with you.] the physical therapist comes to talk to me. [i still need you. let's move forward, together.] i shave and shower, [stay with me. i am still here, with you.], dress into a gown, [it's still in my hands. what it can be, is anything.], pack all of my stuff, and wait. [i still need you. let's move forward, together.] finally, i am told, it is time. [i have to go now.] i am being wheeled out of the ward, to the operating waiting area. [it's not in my hands, any longer.] the anesthesiologist comes to talk to me. [you will have to go on, without me.] it is very cold. [this is goodbye.] i am given drugs. [i am leaving, but you are still here.] i yell out for professor schaarschmidt, and woozily go everything we've talked about, and tell him all the new things i've thought of, deluding myself into believing that i still have any control. [with my last ounce of strength, i leap to edge of my bed, stretch out my arms as far as i can, and place my hands into yours.] lots of things are happening around me, but the drugs are starting to take effect. [my hands are useless now, but what about yours?] the anesthesiologist comes and introduces herself. [with your hands, what you can be, is anything.] she tells me they are going to place the epidural catheter into my spine. [if you stayed with me, thank you.] she asks if i've ever had one before, and i say yes. [if you stayed with me, i love you.] she suggests i lay down while they insert it, but i tell her that will not be necessary. [you stayed with me, but i am leaving you.] while trying to insert it, they encounter resistance, and i feel a shudder go up my spine to my head. [it doesn't seem right.] i am immediately forced to lay down, on my side. [there must be something i can do.] they struggle to insert the catheter. [but, there is nothing i can do.] the epidural catheter is inserted. [my hands are not in my control.] i lay on my side, with my hands close to my chest, shivering. [i can't do anything.] the anesthesiologist notices me shivering and holds my hands tightly with hers. [no, there is one thing i can do.] i am put to sleep. [it is the only thing i can do.] i am gone—you are still here. [i will come back for you.]