Coming to is always worse than going under.
Going under is summarized by a calm, blissful peace.
The countdown starts: Three, Two, and before you reach one, there’s nothing.
No questions. No fear. No wondering what's happening inside your body. Nothing.
Coming to is different.
Instead of calm and blissful peace, you’re met with the harsh reality of what your body just endured. The lights feel sharper, the pain is there, and you just want to go back to sleep.
For months, I had wanted control. I wanted to know what my body was doing.
Why it was happening. Whether the procedure would work.
I wanted answers because answers felt like control.
But so many things in life are out of our control.
And twenty-three mostly normal years can make you forget how quickly normal can change.
You start assuming there will be another Christmas.
Another chance to say what you should have said.
Another chance to make something right.
Another chance to be more present.
Later feels endless.
Until suddenly it doesn't.
I don't want the lesson from all of this to be that I should spend every day thinking I might die.
Nobody wants to be around a person obsessed with dying, including my kids.
I want them to have a dad committed to living.
There's a difference.
Being there. Putting the phone down. Making the memory.
Apologizing. Forgiving.
Showing up. Being the dad.
Not because tomorrow won't come.
But because today did.