A single tear rolls down my still-slack cheek, and falls from my poorly shaven jaw. I wipe away the telltale track swiftly; it wouldn't do to be seen to weep in public.
Am I mourning the loss of mobility, of vision, of ability? Do I constantly cry inside at my infirmity, these single tears the only expression of a strangled emotion kept buried? Perhaps I lament the boy I was, the man I have been, and the shadow of humanity I have become, is that what these tears represent?
No. Both my eyes tear normally, but my left eyelids don't close fully yet, and so the natural lubricant of the eye—tears—accumulates on the left and sometimes rolls down my cheek. I make sure my left eye is moist enough, but other than that, these drops are a minor inconvenience at worst. That is all.
I may have regrets, but I am far from unhappy. Sure, there's a lot of hard work ahead, compounded, no doubt, by hideous bureaucracy, but life is working hard, and anyone who tells you otherwise is deluded or lying.