I am typing this from my home. My family is around me.
A year ago today I was lying in a hospital bed. A year ago today I was in a CAT scanner. A year ago today I was in the emergency room hearing the resident, with concern on his young face, say quietly: “You have a mass in your brain.”
I’m getting it back. I just sent a book to my beta-readers last week, for the first time since before I heard that — since The High King’s Will was in beta.
Also I fucking lived.
It’s still in there. To me it looks like a wad of soap bubbles — I’ve seen it on MRI scans since and it looks like a wad of soap bubbles at the bottom of the sink. Except it’s inside my skull, in my brain, kissing my hemispheres with terror. They say I’m not going to have any more problems with it, but some small part of me thinks of the way it looked and cringes from it.
But I fucking lived. I lived through the surgery and through the recovery and here I am. Off I go to write.