Last night was one of those nights where you have a dream that is so realistic that when you wake up you are completely at a loss to whether it was a figment of your imagination or a reality. I had dreamt that I had rolled over in bed, arisen and walked to the bathroom. It was by no means a riveting, adventurous dream. I was not a competitor in the Triwizard tournament in Harry Potter, bungee jumping in Peru or winning the Nobel prize. It was one of the, as Ella Fitzgerald would put it, "sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you".
Since my procedure on Wednesday, I have not been able to move without assistance. I now view basic tasks as battles against the enemy, blinding pain. When swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I am brandishing my sword. When walking, painstakingly slowly towards the bathroom, I am Phillipe Petit, the twin towers tightrope walker. These small movements have to be seen as successes, or I would find my present predicament too upsetting.
Waking up this morning, I was sure I had achieved the seemingly impossible, I had begun to fight the enemy alone, that I had not required my mum to help me brandish my sword, that I had managed to get up and walk to the bathroom. A sense of relief and empowerment fluttered through my body and smile erupted over my pasty face. I then attempted to turn over in bed. This was only to be greeted by a searing pain in my lumbar region and the cruel realisation that I had dreamt a little dream of me. As upsetting as this realisation was, at least it is proof that I am a fighter and that when this dream becomes an actuality it will not go unnoticed. Until then, I will have to continue to rely on the incredible support of my family and friends and continue to battle my fear, he who must not be named.