you will lie in that metaphorical cave where you will be found later. you will be exhausted. everything will hurt. you will lose feeling in your feet. you will need a cane. you will lose feeling in your legs. you will lose strength. you will need a wheelchair.

while this happens, you will lose your memory. you will lose your energy. you will lose your ability to stay conscious. you will lose your vision.

many of these things will, given enough time, be considered permanent.

you will have mood swings and outbursts because you are in hell, and people who loved you will distance from you because they can't deal with it. you will lose friends because you have to cancel plans over and over when you are too sick. your family will stop inviting you to events because nobody wants to go somewhere you can get to. your world will get smaller and smaller around you until the agony of it strangles you every time you wake up, and you will dream of it killing you when you sleep.

if you are lucky eventually you will crawl out of the metaphorical cave that made you look so beautiful when you were going to be rescued and you will find that overall nobody really cared. when, if, you fix it, it will be thankless appointments to keep yourself from dying on the way back. and reliance on people who would usually rather be doing anything else than needing to help you. and weeks of lying in the ruins of the past weeks that became months that became years that you can only remember as scattered singular events realizing as you regain the ability to even think that all of this occurred and you weren't even alive enough to recognize it was happening until it was over. there will be no sung praises or an admiration of your fortitude. at best there will be a mild surprise that anything happened to you at all.