It felt as if I were carefully relearning everything from the beginning.

Not as knowledge, but through direct experience.

A baby passes stool in a diaper, and is praised for it.

Not being able to do so is a problem, and it becomes a measure of health and growth.

After the surgery, I was no different.

The nurse lifted the diaper and said, “That’s a good one.”

Perhaps it was just a kind remark.

But at the same time, I understood that this was part of the necessary process.

Each time a tube was removed from my body, one by one, I could feel it.

The ability to breathe.
To sit.
To stand.
To walk.
To go to the toilet on my own.
To drink water.
To sleep.
To have someone reach out a hand.

Every one of these felt precious.

Not as an idea, but as something real.

I had often heard that hospital food is not good.

But I didn’t feel that way at all.

Perhaps it was simply the ability to eat.

It tasted almost unbelievably good.

To chew.
To swallow.
To take in nourishment through my own body, rather than through an IV.

And eventually, to let it pass through me by my own will.

Everything I had taken for granted, now felt like something miraculous.

When put into words, it sounds almost trivial.

Even so, this is the only way I can express it.