SURGERY DAY

It is 6am on surgery day.

I have showered, scrubbed my body with antibacterial wash and listened to centering music on the ride to the hospital. My husband is with me, my mom is with me and friends are carrying me in hope. I am stepping across the entrance of this place and am ready to rock this operation.

Nope. Definitely nope.

I started out so strong. Joke with the nurse, make sure she knows I appreciate she’s at the end of a 12-hour shift. Keep the mood light, smile at my husband and mom. I’ve got this thing, don’t worry about me.

Three tries to get the IV in and the dam began to break - fear and pain are hard to keep at bay. As we wheel out into the hallway I can no longer hear my centering song playing in my head. Around the corner my surgical nurse asks if I want a blanket, my voice cracks as I tell him I do run cold. Blink hard, Kiesha. You. Can. Do. This.

Inside the operating suite I glance around the room, dear God all these tools can’t be here for me. Transfer to the operating table, a surgical assistant begins to secure my left arm. Don’t worry, she says, seeing the start of my tears, we’ll take good care of you. Just breathe, another nods, as he places oxygen over my face. 

I have not yet noticed my anesthesiologist, she has prepped me for the procedure and I’ve been through surgery before. Breathe some oxygen and then she’ll let me know it’s time. Count down from ten, she’ll say, and then I’ll wake up.

But nothing, no count down. No, alright, here we go. I can imagine my kind blanket nurse turning beyond my view and mouthing to my anesthesiologist, ‘She’s losing it. Do. It. Now.’

And then I wake up.

And I have failed.

I have not rocked surgery, not sailed through like some mythical operating room goddess. She was such a pleasant patient, my attending staff was supposed to say. So brave, so calm.

Not at all folks. Not at all.

I sit here six months post-surgery and wonder why I have deemed this as a failure. Why I have outlined my necessary surgery ‘success’ to such a degree.  Why in the world did this pattern of events ever enter my mind as a qualification for being strong?

I am still trying to find the answer.

And I’m wondering how many other times in my life that I have done the same. I wonder how many other times we have done the same.

In truth I showed up on surgery day with every bit of strength written across my identity. I wanted one scenario but it did not materialize, and I was every bit of a similar wreck in the recovery room. But I was human, real, subject to my emotions and fears on such a monumental day.

I was strong, but I did not deem it that way.

And this is my journey. 

My inner friend voice would have never talked to me this way. This is a HUGE deal, she’d say, they’re operating on your spine, it’s okay to feel afraid. You are a strong one, my friend, embrace when you feel weak. Own who you truly are, stop dictating what you think strength should look like.

How have we lost our way? Why have we dictated what strength should look like, and in doing so deemed ourself monumentally weak?

This is not who we truly are.

So as your friend I say, you are a strong one, my friend, embrace when you feel weak. Own who you truly are and stop trying to dictate what strength look like.

Rise up, superwoman, with all of who you are.