Tomorrow is D-Day, decision day, and distressed, desperate, dishevelled but definitely not depressed me will be sprinting in spirit (tottering in truth) towards the surgeon's consulting room, frantic to find out my fate, future and fortune.
I feel all my strength is resting in his words. I need them to illuminate a light at the end of a tunnel. It does not matter how long the tunnel is, or how many bends and obstacles are along its route, as long as he can point out a spark in the distance. I need a tunnel to begin to travel down or at least to be able to plan to travel down. All my hope has been precariously placed in his hands.