I did not wake up screaming or crying. When consciousness returned to me, it arrived slowly, wrapped in pain and confusion, as though my body was reluctant to accept reality. The ceiling above my hospital bed was a dull off white, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights that made everything feel colder than it already was. The smell of disinfectant mixed with plastic tubing and stale air pressed into my lungs, carrying with it an unspoken message that something had gone terribly wrong and could never be undone.
My throat felt raw and dry, my limbs heavy and distant, as if they no longer belonged to me. There was a deep ache inside my abdomen, not sharp but hollow, an emptiness that radiated outward and settled into my bones. I did not need anyone to explain what had happened. My body already knew.
A nurse stood nearby, her posture careful, her expression professional yet weighed down by sympathy. When she spoke, her voice was low and gentle, the kind used when delivering news that could not be softened.
“I am very sorry,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “We tried everything.”