Everyone is bringing flowers. I don’t have enough vases to put them in. Do they think I’m made of vases? How dare they make me responsible for not allowing another thing to die?
I feel the same way about people liking me and wanting to spend time with me as I do about people speaking in Swedish: I accept it, I love it, but I don’t really understand it.
I realised this week that I have sort of come to be quite fond of my stoma site. Yeah, you can see where the staples used to be and the skin stretched, and the scar is a bit raised and lighter than the skin around it, and I can’t really feel when I touch it. But it sort of goes in a bit, like a dimple, and I think it’s sorta cute? If I could change something about my belly I would lose a bit of weight from it and tone it up a bit. I have come to love my scars and I wouldn’t want to get rid of them or change them. <3