The bleeding's stopped, mostly
The pressure behind the eyes, diminished
Replacement fluids, started
Internal damage might be irreparable, there's scarring
A piece is missing, it can never be replaced
The patient is still vulnerable
Thou art not holy to belie me so;http://shakespeare.mit.edu/john/john.3.4.html
I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:
I am not mad: I would to heaven I were!
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal;
For being not mad but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son,
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
Speak to me in whispers against my ear, speak of the rain against the window and the wind in the trees. Speak of clear mountain water falling through crevices, cascading into pools of shimmering breathlessness and press a kiss against my hair. Speak of music low and sweet, lilting and lovely and turn the key to a world that neither has known.