The Day My Heart Stood Still - Part 17

Version in German

Today is March 29, 2026. As of today it’s been 6 months since my brother drove me to the hospital in Hamburg. At one and the same moment it feels like “What, only 6 months?” and “Huh, 6 months already?” And that — frankly — is extremely confusing in its simultaneity.

It still glows a little red. Maybe the scar always will. When I stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror, having just stepped out of the shower and drying myself off, I see it. Then it reminds me of that day at the end of September.

The surgery is behind me. The first stretch after the surgery, which carried so many risks, is presumably behind me too. The surgery whose anticipation accompanied me for many years. And yet sometimes the scar has to remind me that the last 6 months actually happened.

My chest was open. People had their hands in my chest. Not on. In. A thought that still seems foreign. 6 months later I still haven’t quite made my peace with it.¹

Through a bill from the hospital I learned that I was on the heart-lung machine for 154 minutes. That piece of information was somehow missing from the medical report. Another piece of the puzzle to put together the two missing days at the end of September. The red marks on my neck, where it was connected, have disappeared. The thoughts about it haven’t.

Concentration still isn’t really something I can take for granted. Even today it remains a limited resource. I save it up for my work. I sleep little, but by now I sleep well. Sometimes I feel like a stranger in my own time zone.

Writing helps. It gives me focus. It stays exhausting. Books still wear me out. Reading has to be done in measured doses.

For a few weeks now I’ve been going to bed with the birds. I’m tired when they’re tired. And I get up in the middle of the night. Long before the first chirp becomes audible. The world may not be asleep at this hour, but it’s still quiet. I can gather myself. I’ve slept through the restlessness of the evening. This is the time when I write. It feels light then. It feels necessary.

The blog has changed. It’s meant to be more than technology now. A place where I endure. When I’m no longer here. Something that can happen sooner than I thought.