I go in for my final operation and when I regain consciousness am wheeled out to my new ward. As I arrive I am welcomed by the sight of the woman opposite me pressed against the window silently sobbing. The window bay, the last beacon of privacy. She spends the rest of the evening silently sobbing whilst being comforted by her mother. I try not to look forward in order to give them some space so close my eyes and try and meditate the rest of the evening away. She is the only other person under 40 I have met so far apart from the Glamourous Australian. When we finally have the inevitable ‘what are you in for’ conversation I always compare to like being jail, it turns out we have had incredulously similar experiences. A life saving emergency operation followed closely by another emergency operation caused by band adhesions choking internal organs to death. I’ve never met anyone else who has had such a similar experience. We discuss our fear of growing more band adhesions “I feel like I’ve been given a life sentence” she confides. We talk of our love of travel and of this condition potentially hindering any more adventures. “I wish I could be tough like you” she says but I explain I am further on in the recovery process and she will get there in the end. We compare our smorgasbord of stomach scars and discuss how we’ll ever wear a bikini again. I overhear her phone conversations with her young son whilst she congratulates him on his spelling test. Then her tears when she gets off the phone “I just want to be a mother to my son but I can’t” she sobs. She overhears my cries of pain as my drain is taken out. “Are you ok in there babe?” she calls comfortingly through the closed blue curtain when it’s all over. We have the same surgeon who comes to visit us and compare our procedures. We are released in the same week. We message each other whilst at home and confirm we are both on the couch watching box sets in our recovery and we will indeed live the rest of our lives band adhesion free and we will make it.

A couple of weeks later I message to hear how she is getting on. She tells me she is back in hospital with stage 4 incurable stomach cancer and is being fed through a tube. It’s only a matter of time. I wonder how this wasn’t recognised before after all the times she was cut open how did they not see. I remember her pain I witnessed on the ward and it was stomach cancer all along. I think about how after all those emergency operations she was going to die anyway. How all that pain and suffering had been for nothing. I think about her son growing up without a mother. I think about how she will die and I will live.

The knowledge that you will make it and someone you were in recovery with won’t is a special kind of heartbreak I learn to navigate.

A few weeks pass and she stops replying to my messages. I leave it as I remember how overwhelming it can be to have to reply to messages when you’re functioning in survival mode. When I can face it I occasionally check on Whatsapp to see the last time she was active, just to check she’s still alive.