Monday was a turmoil of ambulances, doctors, and x-rays while laying down on a hospital bed. I couldn’t yet fully believe that my bike trip had been rotundly interrupted, and I thought of little else. What I did know was that no friends or family of mine knew of the accident as of yet. Still keeping my project to myself, I refused to tell anyone about it. Only Leneve got to know about it that day. and I only told her to let her know about my last will stored in my gmail, which she was to carry out in case my surgeries ended up killing me. I wrote that will just before skydiving, and though it was a bit outdated, I think it was a thoughtful gesture, if not a tad overdramatic. (I did ask the doctors around me, and they said that the probability of me dying was not zero).
On Monday night, I woke up from the surgery on my left tibia, slightly disappointed of being alive, feeling tired, frustrated, and a little confused. I was unsure of what to do, unsure of who to tell, ashamed that my gem of a project had ended so miserably and so fast. My main feelings were sadness and shame.
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