Imagine if you will, an utterly beautiful day. An April morning. It's Friday and you have the day off! You are filled with such peace and happiness you almost can't stand it. A day of laughter. And love. You're strong, you're in control, you're invicible. You're safe.
Now, during this beautiful day, it's time for a nap! You're comfortable, relaxed. 'Just lie here for 30 minutes'. Easy. You drift away.
Dreams come and go, haunting, scary. Your fears wrapped up in everything that's ever made you uncomfortable. They're so real. So real and so frightening. Finally, finally, you wake and there's your best friend, your lover, your rock. And you begin to relax. Wow, what a dream, you say. And you notice, you're not lying where you were, but that's okay. It's not really a problem. Yet.
Tubes, wires, bandages, something attached to your throat that prevents you from talking, breathing. Panic begins to rise, and fear clogs your throat. Swiftly your brain races to find some logic to connect the pieces of this horrible puzzle that's becoming your reality.
Throwing back the covers, you find temporary relief that your legs look normal. While getting out of bed, someone has to catch you as you slide to the floor. Who do those legs belong to? Not you! You just tried to walk. And couldn't.
You ask, 'what's happened?' 'What day is it?' And you feel his anguish before you see his tears. You hear, but you don't comprehend. 'That's, what? 77 days?' He doesn't need to nod because you feel it inside with a sinking, sinking feeling. Something is wrong. Something is horribly, horribly wrong. Seventy-seven days? Of your life? When? How? What happened? And this is only the beginning.