When I opened my eyes again, it was already the third day after surgery.My mother was still beside the bed in sterile scrubs, her eyes red with exhaustion. The moment she saw me awake, she reached for my face.“Does it hurt?”My throat was dry, but I still managed a smile.“If I’m alive, I can handle the rest.”That made her laugh and cry at the same time.The surgery had gone well. The doctors said the tumor was out cleanly and that, if recovery stayed on track, I would be fine. They were more careful when they spoke about memory. Some patients lost nothing. Some lost pieces. Some said parts of their lives felt far away.That was close to what I felt.I was not empty. I still knew who I was. But some faces, some names, and some feelings had gone dim around the edges. I could sense the gaps, and I felt no real need to fill them.Once I was out of danger, they moved me to a regular room.My mother watched over everything after that. She checked my water, argued with nurses when she tho
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