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*”Wiktor, can you hear me? Wiktor, it’s time to wake up. It’s all over now. Your palate has been reconstructed.”* I heard the words. But I couldn’t open my eyes. For a while, I had no idea what was happening around me. My mind simply wasn’t working. The words blended together into meaningless sounds, and opening my eyes—let alone looking around—felt almost impossible. Eventually, I managed to focus on the anesthesiologist standing to the left of my bed. *”The surgery is over. Everything went well. We’ve left a breathing tube through your nose as a precaution, just in case your airway swells.”* Almost instinctively, my right hand reached toward my neck. Even that tiny movement demanded more strength than my body had left. The moment my fingers touched my neck, every bit of energy drained away. *”You don’t have a tracheostomy,”* she reassured me. *”There was no need for one.”* Then she smiled gently. *”Now tell me your full name.”* *”Wiktor Mryka.”* The moment I heard my own voice, I froze. What… was that? That didn’t sound like me. It wasn’t my voice. On top of that, every word felt like an enormous effort. My lips, my mouth, my throat—nothing seemed to work anymore. Then the doctor said, *”Try swallowing your saliva.”* I couldn’t. Or rather, the swallowing reflex was still there—which, I imagine, was exactly what they wanted to check—but most of the saliva simply stayed in my mouth. *”You’ll have trouble swallowing for now. You have two tubes going through your throat—a feeding tube and the breathing tube. We’ll remove the breathing tube tomorrow. The feeding tube will stay for about a week.”* By then, her words were already beginning to fade. I only had enough energy for those few minutes. My eyes kept closing on their own. *”The operation lasted eight hours. Get some rest now. You’ll stay in the ICU until tomorrow morning, and then we’ll transfer you back to the ward.”* And I drifted away again. I woke up several times during the night. Once because I threw up. Once because a thunderstorm broke out. A tremendous clap of thunder pulled me back to reality for a brief moment. It must have been an incredible storm if I could hear it so clearly even from inside the intensive care unit. Another time because the monitors never stopped beeping, buzzing, and sounding alarms. One of the patients had some sort of emergency, and suddenly the entire room came alive with unfamiliar warning tones. Then, just before dawn, I woke up again when two nurses came to wash me. I can’t even describe how humiliating that felt. When you’re so weak that you can’t do absolutely anything for yourself… when two people have to wash you, lift you, and turn you over because you simply don’t have the strength… No matter how hard I tried to help them, I was barely able to contribute. That was also when I realized I was covered in saliva, blood, and sweat. It felt awful. I had never felt so helpless. Or so embarrassed. At that moment, I honestly thought nothing worse could possibly happen. I was soooo wrong. I should also say this. The nurses were incredibly kind, patient, compassionate. They never once made me feel uncomfortable or ashamed. That might not sound like much, but at the time it meant everything. For the next several hours, I simply lay there listening to the rhythmic beeping of the machines. There were, I think, eight patients in the ICU. Those sounds came from every direction. I know that during those hours I wasn’t really thinking. I couldn’t. My mind simply wasn’t capable of it. I stared blankly at the ceiling. Or at the wall. The only thing I prayed for was that no one in that room would go into cardiac arrest. That nothing would happen to any of the other patients. Eventually, one of the doctors came over and told me he was going to remove the breathing tube from my nose. *”You don’t need the extra oxygen anymore,”* he said. *”You’ll feel much more comfortable without it.”* What I didn’t know was that removing the tube simply meant pulling it out. I could feel every inch of it. It slid up through my throat… through my entire nasal passage… until it finally came out. The whole thing only lasted a few seconds. For me, it felt like forever. All I could think about was trying not to gag. Some time later, the nurses transferred me back to the surgical ward. Ever since the operation, I had remained in bed the entire time, so I was wheeled back exactly the same way. The very first thing I did after arriving in my room… was vomit. Everything that was still left inside me came back up. The doctors and nurses described it as bloody secretions and assured me it was a good thing that I had managed to clear them. They were right. At least medically. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel any better. Once everything had settled down and the doctor was satisfied that nothing else was going to happen, he told me to get some rest. *”You won’t be eating until tomorrow,”* he said. Eating. That word had a completely different meaning now. For the foreseeable future, every meal would be delivered directly into my stomach through a feeding tube. They adjusted my bed into a semi-upright position. Partly because it was more comfortable. Partly because I had spent more than twenty-four hours lying flat, and my body desperately needed a different position. Then everyone left. My previous roommate had already gone home. The next patient wasn’t expected until the following day. For the first time since the operation… I was completely alone. The only thing I managed to do before putting my phone away was send a short message to my parents. *”I’m back on the ward.* *I’m alive.”* It was sometime around three o’clock in the afternoon. Later that evening, one of the nurses came in with my medications and injections. There seemed to be countless of them every single day. Shots in my abdomen. Another in my arm. Medication through the central line. And two IV drips—one for pain relief and one with antibiotics. Those few minutes were the only human interaction I had that entire evening. Apart from that… I was alone. Just me. And my own thoughts. That was when the longest night of my life began. It didn’t take long to realize that I couldn’t lie down. Every time I tried, I could feel the feeding tube in my throat, while bloody discharge or mucus from my nose ran straight down into it. My sinuses were completely blocked, and although it wasn’t pleasant, it was much better when the blood and mucus drained out through my nose instead of flowing backward. I also began to *feel* my new palate. It bothered me constantly. A transplant is something completely foreign. Something your brain doesn’t yet recognize as part of your own body. Mine certainly didn’t. It quickly became clear that there wasn’t a comfortable position anywhere in that bed. Lying down was impossible. Sitting wasn’t much better. I tried to sleep. I really did. But for the first time since the operation, my mind was no longer clouded by medication. I could think again. And that turned out to be the worst part. I tried speaking out loud. Just a few words. My voice sounded awful. Every single word exhausted me. Blood dripped from my nose. Saliva kept running from my mouth. That was when it truly hit me. I was drooling. Because, damn it… I couldn’t swallow my own saliva.  **WHAT HAD THEY DONE TO ME?** I couldn’t open my mouth properly. I couldn’t swallow my own saliva. My voice sounded terrible. Every word was exhausting. There was a tube in my nose. A surgical drain in my leg. A urinary catheter. This was ridiculous. I was twenty-three years old. Twenty-three. At that age, I should have been traveling the world. Finishing university. Looking for my first real job. Earning money. Living life to the fullest. Instead… I was lying in a hospital bed, barely alive. Blood was dripping from my nose. Saliva from my mouth. I couldn’t sleep. My head hurt. My leg hurt. My back hurt. Even sitting had become painful. What kind of life was this? What was the point of suffering like this? What would any of this achieve? What would any of this bring me? What was my future supposed to look like? Because if this… if *this* was my future… I didn’t want it. At that moment, it felt as though I had already been excluded from normal life. How do you start a conversation with someone when you can barely speak? How do you walk up to a girl and compliment her when every single word has to be forced out, one syllable at a time? Was that it? Would my life now be limited to social isolation… and a handful of friends who, hopefully, wouldn’t walk away? I couldn’t live like that. Would I ever be able to do anything again? Would I ever run? Play football? Do sports? That night… I couldn’t see my future. I couldn’t see anything beyond that hospital room. None of it made any sense anymore. I wanted to believe it was all just a nightmare. A horrible dream that I would eventually wake up from. I had to. Because a life like this couldn’t possibly be real. Was I supposed to suffer for the rest of my life? How much more would I have to endure? How long would things stay this difficult? Tears streamed down my face. For as long as they could. Eventually… there weren’t any tears left. By morning, I was covered in saliva. My face was stained with tears. There was dried blood around my nose. Altogether, I think I slept for no more than forty-five minutes that entire night. I didn’t want morning to come. I wasn’t waiting for a new day. I already knew it wouldn’t change anything. It would only bring another day of pain. Another day of struggling. And for what? Then the door opened. A nurse walked into the room with a warm smile on her face.

*”Good morning! Time to wash up and start a brand-new day.”*

At the bottom you can find two pictures – one of me before the surgery and the second is the day after the surgery.