60. Surgery

And the kids… calls to them. “I don’t plan to die today. I love you, forever, across all boundaries and time.” There are so many others I would say that to in the same moment. You have to know that you are included in those words at all points of my story.

Kwami sat in the parking lot, waiting for information, for results of the CT scan.  Imagine getting that phone call.  “Go home, I’m heading to surgery.”  I am trying to get inside of that.  Such helplessness.  

And the kids… calls to them.  “I don’t plan to die today.  I love you, forever, across all boundaries and time.”  There are so many others I would say that to in the same moment.  You have to know that you are included in those words at all points of my story.

I could die.  It was an option.  Spoiler:  I am still here.

So for surgery, they wheel a person away from Kaiser Urgent Care and admit the patient into Overlake Hospital.  It was creeping into the wee hours.  I slept.  And then they took me to an enormous, overly lit room.  In moments, I was out.  

And Dr. Haque started a marathon that’s results shifted the balances for heaven and earth.  The lymph (revenge), the lower colon, the mass, the appendix, a Fallopian tube and its cyst were removed.  “Rebuild her, make her better, stronger, faster…”  That had to be the worst of it.  A new exit for the colon.  Endless stitches and repairs.  Cleaning up the insides for a chance of continued function. 

Dr. Haque presents as a jovial, positive, upbeat person.  Nyasha got the call about the completion of surgery around 6am.  He was rightfully worn and mentally, perhaps physically exhausted.  But the report was that I had survived.