When I wake up from surgery, I tell my mother three things. I tell her I can breathe. I tell her you need to read that poem to me right now- the one about gratitude and the turtle and, I tell her, you need to text her that I miss her and I’m so happy. I pause briefly and share that I, in addition to those three things, want a bagel and need to pee. Healing, counting milliliters of blood that come out of my chest. Holding my chest so I can hug you. Before my showers, I run my hands over the...