How Fear Dissolves as I’m Wheeled Away Alone for Emergency Surgery

The most vivid memory of that night is the hallway ceiling as I’m wheeled to the operating room alone. Time stands still as I move under its bright lights. A mental picture downloads with surprising clarity and precision.

I recall blurry snippets of the night after my surgery in the ICU. Around 1 a.m. a machine starts beeping loudly. Why is it going off? A young nurse comes in to silence the beep, making what strikes me as an inexperienced—actually, off-the-wall—assessment of the cause, but she can’t silence it. I keep trying to figure out what she means but can’t make sense of it. The ICU nurse assigned to me enters with calm professionalism and kindness. She is one of those special nurses who studies her patients to figure out what they need. (As it turns out that, she would be assigned to me three days in a row.) The beep still won’t stop. She checks the portable Doppler ultrasound device for blood flow to the transplant site, but the signal is mixed and uncertain. As additional nurse staff flit in and out, I hear them mention the surgeons’ names and “emergency surgery.” There’s talk of blood clots, blood thinner, scary prospects.

Eight hours ago, the report of the double mastectomy, DIEP flap abdominal surgery, and tissue transplant was crisply positive, the Doppler showing steady blood flow, but now the danger is rapidly spiraling. A couple of hours later, the staff tries to call my husband to inform him of an emergency surgery, but his phone is off; they finally reach my oldest son who lives an hour away. The quick and efficient movements of nurses prepping a patient for surgery fill the room with hushed and rustling noises. I lie in bed, my mind dulled by anesthesia, narcotics, and confusion and anxiety spiking.

All I know is that I am alone and afraid of facing an emergency surgery in the middle of the night. The most vivid memory of that night is the ceiling in the hallway as nurses wheel me to the operating room. Time stands still as I move under its bright lights. A mental picture downloads with surprising clarity and precision. It’s a picture of words on a screen, comforting words that take center stage in my mind, kicking fear to the periphery. The words belong to Psalm 139, which my friend Pam texted me a day before: 

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
    you discern my thoughts from afar.
3 You search out my path and my lying down
    and are acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before a word is on my tongue,
    behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.
5 You hem me in, behind and before,
    and lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
    it is high; I cannot attain it.

7 Where shall I go from your Spirit?
    Or where shall I flee from your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
    If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
9 If I take the wings of the morning
    and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
10 even there your hand shall lead me,
    and your right hand shall hold me.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
    and the light about me be night,”
12 even the darkness is not dark to you;
    the night is bright as the day,
    for darkness is as light with you.

In that brief moment, I experience God’s palpable presence and know I am not alone. I realize that God’s presence is ultimately my greatest gift—and need--in this life, my only guarantee right now. It’s as if peace invades my heart and I am ready for what lies ahead. I remember my courage returning to me under the bright lights and thinking “I can do this!” I am whisked into the operating room. The particulars of the OR blend together after what turns out to be a total of five surgeries except for the friendly, yet reserved banter of the staff trying to push back anxiety. A stark sign saying the space is “terminally cleaned” catches my attention, though I don’t know what to make of it. Next is the vivid memory of my husband’s kiss in the recovery room.

Months later a friend asks a small group gathering how we experience God and I reflect on that moment. God’s breathing Word reaches me through the kindness of a friend with an old phone. It must have been an effort for her to type in the psalm because I’m not sure her phone has cut and paste functions. That’s how she is, dedicated and devoted.

It’s a familiar passage that appears like a screen shot to my drugged brain, bright and lucid, unbidden and irresistibly sweet.

Thank you for reading this blog post! I’d love to hear how this story impacted you or someone you know and/or any stories you’d like to share. Click here to contact me. - Sheri