It was unavoidable, creeping up on me each year and casting my already gloomy world even deeper into shadows. Like standing at the base of an impossibly tall skyscraper, I could crane my neck in any direction trying to avoid it, but in the end the imposing steel-glass tower would dominate even the sun’s presence and obstruct my view of the sky completely. My nightmares were always worse during the weeks leading up. Their intensity left me shaken and weak, effortlessly transporting me back fourteen years to become the blood-soaked six year old in a crumpled SUV. Some nights I dreamed about the hospital, instead: doctors and nurses conferring in hushed tones, the whirring of machines, too many wires and IVs hooked into my pale, broken body to count. It got harder to slow my racing heart and release the viselike pressure in my lungs – more difficult to shove the memories back into the dark recesses of my memory. Functioning on even less sleep than usual, I doubled both my caffeine intake and my sassiness.
