(A follow-up to The Breath I’m In)

I wrote that title before my surgery.

It scared me.

I’ve always been a hope for the best, prepare for the worst kind of girl, but in this case, the worst was—worst—and I didn’t have the stamina or bandwidth to prepare for it. Not to mention my medical and mental health team assuring me that preparing for the best has been proven to lead to better outcomes and faster healing after surgery. So, despite my longtime, knee-jerk reluctance to jinx a good thing by expecting it—I prepared for the best.

Even as I lay in my pre-op hospital bed, I had to keep reminding myself of the fact. I was second-guessing my decision all the way into and through the process. Each new team member who showed up to introduce themselves—the surgical residents, the anesthesiologists, the IV specialist with the ultrasound machine needed to locate a suitable vein—ramped up the anxiety and then the feeling of stupidity for being anxious. Because, after all, it was only a laparoscopic surgery, which I misunderstood as being less impactful at the time, only later to discover, in the words of my nurse friend, “just because the incisions are small doesn’t mean the surgery is.”

My anesthesiologist noted “the panic on my face” despite my measured breathing and mental attempts to calm myself and graciously pushed some happy meds into my IV. My last image before going dark was of the three surgical residents surrounding my bed, one of them holding my hand, all cooing reassuring words and sounds that were increasingly difficult to differentiate as I quickly faded. I remember feeling so proud of those young doctors, as if they were my own daughters, before falling into the dead zone.

Surgery was successful, and no malignant cells were present. The final pathology report revealed a rare, benign tumor that had a likelihood of turning malignant within the next decade if it had been left to its own devices. In the end, despite my wobbly moments, surgery was the right choice, and I was awash in relief and gratitude. The surgeon described my uterus as congested with tumors, fibroids, and tissue, all engorged and angry with blood vessels wrapped and tangled throughout. A thick lining that, rather than shedding as it should, grew into the muscle and filled it with blood. It’s impossible not to see it as a metaphor for how I’ve existed in the world. Growing, buffering, storing—congested layers of protection and armor. Building a fortress of backups and contingencies, and, as any crisis such as this will do, the experience has invited me to reimagine and reinvent how I choose to exist in the world.

Part of that change demands a continued surrender, an acceptance of the lack of answers because sometimes there simply aren’t any. Cause and effect lend order and certainty to the basic need to explain the whys of existence, but often, there is no straight line between the two. We like to think that if we can answer the whys, we’ll have some sort of say in the matter. Many times, we do, but for the most part, we are merely navigating the current, acting, and reacting in real time.

I’ve come to understand that honing those skills is precisely the point. I used to think that if I couldn’t foresee and devise a plan for every possible situation I may encounter in my lifetime, then I’d failed to evolve both experientially and intellectually—that the mastery of life would be to know all things at all times, never fumbling for answers or solutions or reasons. I was so angry and bitter that life kept happening to me. When was I going to be able to have a say in my own existence?

Well, never, actually.

Not in any more than a very superficial sense. Of course, I have the power of choice to a certain degree. My choices determine how I will navigate the current, but they have no impact on the flow.

Some people think of the current as God and accept being at its whim by believing there is a grand plan laid out for them and it is not for them to question the wisdom of the architect, but I thrive on questions, so I could never adopt that point of view. I cannot imagine that the river of life has any specific course charted for me any more than a rush of spring snow melt plans to take out the trees along the bank. But I am beginning to find relief in the fact that I can’t control the river and a thrill in the act of sharpening my navigational skills instead. I am learning to be content to settle into myself and find security in those parts of me that are demanding to be noted. One of which is the writer, a thing my subconscious made clear during my loopy minutes of returning from the amnesia of anesthetic.

Apparently, my slurred conversations with the nurses were ones in which I was doling out unsolicited writing advice in response to their agonizing over impending essay exams. Of course, I remember none of it. But it’s significant to me that writing was what mattered to me when I was stripped of all my filters. Because so often, I’ve been on the verge of casting it aside because it felt frivolous, unimpactful, indulgent, and silly. Yet, even in an altered state, my identity as a writer was just as essential and authentic as my identity as woman, mother, and companion. I will probably never earn a living from it, nor will I likely be well-known, but it was reassuring to know that when my guard was down, the thing I talked about was writing.

I will never be one to say I am grateful for health challenges. The truth is, I’m not; I’d rather spend my energy on other things. But I am thankful for how this particular challenge played out. I’m glad my doctor was cautious, swift, and thorough when she spotted the irregular mass. I’m relieved I trusted my instincts. I’m grateful the surgeon wasn’t dismissive, even though, initially, it seemed as though he wasn’t alarmed by the MRI results and would have been just as happy to keep an eye on it in lieu of immediate surgery. I’m glad I was decisive even though I was silently questioning myself all the way through and even after the surgery when the recovery turned out to be quite a bit more intense than I’d expected. I am unbelievably grateful to my family and friends who made it crystal clear they would hold me and carry me every step of the way, no matter where the path led. And I must reiterate, no matter how significant or insignificant a health crisis may seem, no one should have to do it alone. Both good and ill health are simply elements of the same current, our only choice being in how we navigate.