The day of surgery didn’t unfold in a way I can fully piece back together.
It came in fragments.
It came slowly and rushed at the same time. I remember waking up before my alarm and staring at the ceiling longer than I meant to. I checked the time more than once, even though I already knew what it said.
I moved through the house on autopilot. Brushed my teeth. Changed clothes. Double-checked the bag I had packed days before, even though nothing inside had changed overnight. My hands were steady, but my thoughts weren’t.
My brain was in overdrive. Running ahead of itself. Replaying conversations. Skipping forward to things I hadn’t experienced yet. I wasn’t calm — I was focused in a way that felt almost mechanical.
I barely remember the drive to the hospital.
I know I was there. I know we parked. I know I walked inside. But the details blur together, like my mind decided those moments weren’t ones it could afford to hold onto.
Inside, everything moved quickly. Check-in. Paperwork. People came in and out of the room. Names. Questions. Instructions. I answered what I could, nodded when it felt easier than speaking. At some point, I realized I was gripping the edges of the blanket without meaning to.
I remember changing into the gown. Folding my clothes and placing them in a bag I wouldn’t touch again that day. I handed it to my fiancé along with everything else I had brought — phone, glasses, the small things that suddenly felt bigger because I wouldn’t have access to them for a while. Letting go of the bag felt symbolic in a way I didn’t expect. Like handing over the last pieces of control without fully realizing it. Wiping down with the antibacterial wipes, feeling sticky afterward, my heart racing and my nerves getting more intense.
I sat on the edge of the bed and swung my feet back and forth while waiting, even though there was nowhere to go.
Waiting for the surgeon to arrive felt like the longest wait of my life.
In reality, it was only about twenty minutes — he was running late because of traffic — but in that room, it felt endless. I watched the door more than anything else, convinced every sound in the hallway might be him walking in.
There were small moments of grounding that I didn’t expect — the coolness of the IV tape on my skin, the sound of wheels rolling in the hallway, the way the room felt too bright and too quiet at the same time. My body was there before my mind was.
I remember being wheeled down the hallway. The ceiling lights passing overhead, one after another. I focused on counting them until I lost track.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
I remember waking up.
The pain and pressure in my stomach were intense — heavier and deeper than I expected, but also different from what I had imagined. It wasn’t sharp in the way I thought pain would be. It was consuming, unfamiliar, and impossible to ignore.
My mouth was dry. Swallowing felt strange. My eyes opened before my body felt ready to follow. When someone asked how I felt, I couldn’t answer right away. My thoughts felt delayed, like they were taking longer than usual to reach me.
I drifted in and out of awareness, never quite sure how much time had passed. Everything narrowed down to what was immediately in front of me — breathing, swallowing, shifting slightly when I could.
By the time I was moved again, I was exhausted in a way that went beyond tired. My body had done something monumental, and my mind was still trying to catch up.
I didn’t feel changed yet. I didn’t feel lighter or clearer or transformed.
I felt here.
And for that day, that was enough.