It has been a slow few days of recovery from a very mild chill, coldly reminding me of lower immunity, a weakened system that could once regenerate with only extra water and a good night's sleep. On days like these, memory management mornings are crucial.

Lying very still on my back, I'd wonder if I opened my eyes, would I see the clock on the left wall, showing the hour but not quite telling the time since I have no idea how long I had been under. I would tilt my head just a little, to feel for any nasal tube up my nose, or was I breathing unassisted? I would part my lips and swallow, to taste for blood from where the intubation tube might have scraped the back of my throat. I would feel for my right thumb, to see whether it was perched on that button of a gateway to morphine bliss. I would wiggle my feet, careful not to shake my left ankle too much, where the drip may be running through. Is there a catheter between my thighs? Have I ungracefully wet the ICU bed? I would listen out for that suction noise behind me to the right, from the drainage unit sucking out pleural fluids via a hose sprouting somewhere from my body, a sound that had me thinking it was raining all through the night.

All this with my eyes closed. And finally, with my left hand, I would gingerly reach for my chest. Do I have sensation there to feel my touch at all? Or is it staples under steri-strips still? Again?

For a few fleeting moments, I would allow my memory to wander, to search for new haunts even. I would then savour the fear, understanding it a little bit more each time, and appreciate that it is healthy to be afraid.

Inhaling at least two deep breaths, filling my repaired lungs with fresh air, I'd open my eyes, wipe the tears off my cheeks, then smile towards the light. I used to love waking up on my side.

Highlights: Cancer Talk