There are exactly seven hours left. Seven hours until the scalpel kisses bone.
Seven hours until they put me under and decide if I ever wake up again.
And I’m not afraid.
I’m 14 years old, and my skeleton is a battlefield.
My body, a map drawn in pain.
I have something called Multiple Hereditary Exostoses—MHE for short. Sounds fancy. Sounds rare. It is both. What it really means is that bone tumors grow across my body like unwanted visitors. They’re not cancerous, but they’ve made themselves at home in my knees, fingers, ribs—anywhere they please.
They hurt. God, they hurt.
I live on a pain scale of 5 out of 10. Every. Single. Day. That might not sound like much, but pain isn’t a straight line. It compounds. It builds. It lingers. You learn to smile with it, laugh with it, wake up with it, and go to sleep with it. Some days, I forget what “no pain” even feels like.
I can’t walk for more than two minutes. I can’t write with a pen. If I couldn’t type, you wouldn’t be reading this. My body—this thing that’s supposed to carry me through my youth—is failing me. Slowly. Quietly. Cruelly.
That’s why, seven hours from now, I’m going under the knife. They’re going to remove the worst tumors in my knees. Saw them off. Then take out two of my ribs, the ones that cracked under pressure from tumors growing inside them. They’ll replace them with metal.
It’s major surgery. Life-altering. Potentially life-ending. The doctors told me there’s a 20% chance I won’t make it. That’s one in five. Like rolling a dice and hoping you don’t roll a one. Try not to think about that, right?
But I’m not scared.
I’ve thought about death a lot. Not because I want to die—I’m not suicidal. But when you live in a body that punishes you just for existing, the idea of peace becomes a strange comfort. If I die, the pain dies with me. If I live, I might walk again. Both feel like a win.
My friends say that’s a horrible mindset to have. That I should fight harder. That I should be angry or scared or determined. But I’m not anything. I’m just… tired. I’ve made peace with every outcome.
So I hugged my sisters. I texted my friends. I looked at the sky on the way to the hospital. And I whispered to myself, Whatever happens… it’s alright.
I Lived, Bitch.
I woke up groggy, tubes in me, eyes blinking at the hospital ceiling.
The surgery worked.
I didn’t die. Not yet, at least. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt something like hope. I texted my friends. I smiled at my mum’s tears. I even uploaded a dumb meme selfie to Reddit with the caption: “I lived, bitch.” Dark humor helps, alright?
But celebration came too soon.
That night, I couldn’t breathe. Pain shot through my chest like lightning. Every inhale felt like drowning. I thought: Gott verdammt, did I really just survive surgery only to die in the recovery room?
Nurses rushed in. Oxygen mask on. Panic fading. I didn’t die. Again.
The Days After
Day 2 was boring. Painful, but boring. I got X-rays. The doctors said I was fine. I didn’t sleep much because the ward had three kids crying all night. You learn to find humor in chaos.
Day 3, the real battle began: learning to walk again.
The physiotherapist came in like a drill sergeant. Told me to stand up. I tried. My knees screamed. My body swore at me. I stood like a wobbly tree in a storm. She scolded me for not standing straight—I just had surgery, mercy please!
But I walked. Three steps. Ten steps. To the toilet and back.
Progress.
We peeled off the bandages on my chest. The wounds looked decent. They sprayed something clear and waterproof on them so I could finally sponge-bathe without flinching. Small blessings.
Day 4, I walked down the whole hallway. It hurt like hell, but it was more than I had done in months. The physiotherapist smiled. She said I was ready to go home. I got discharged, rode in an ambulance (first time ever), and laughed at how in Singapore, ambulance rides don’t cost a kidney. Take that, America.
At home, I talked to my sisters. Played some video games. Slept in peace. No crying kids.
Week 1
Mostly gaming. Healing. Laughing. Eating. Sleeping. Not much to report. It felt almost… normal.
Week 2
I could walk for 10 minutes without stopping. The progress stunned even me. My body, the traitor, was slowly becoming an ally. I got my stitches removed. I didn’t cry. My sister did—okay, not really. But she was proud.
Week 3
Today. I can walk for 15 minutes without rest. Fifteen minutes. That’s longer than I could do before surgery. I’m going to try stairs next. Real, grown-up stairs. Wish me luck.
Reflections from the Other Side of the Knife
Three weeks ago, I had made peace with death. Now, I’m making peace with living.
And it’s… exciting.
I know this pain isn’t over. MHE isn’t curable. There will be more surgeries. More sleepless nights. More crying kids in hospital wards. But I’ve tasted the possibility of a life that’s not ruled by pain. I’ve taken fifteen-minute walks. I’ve stood tall, even when my knees begged me not to.
And that makes me want more.
To those who read my first post and sent kind words—thank you. You reminded me that I’m not alone. That being okay with dying isn’t a weakness, but wanting to keep living after surviving something like this? That’s strength.
So here I am. 14 years old. Scarred. Metal in my ribs. A bit broken. A lot alive.
And walking.
TL;DR: I went into surgery not caring if I lived or died. I survived. Almost died again. Re-learned to walk. Found reasons to keep going. And now, I’m not just surviving anymore—I’m starting to live.
