The night before surgery has a very particular weight to it.
It is not quite fear, not quite calm, but a tender in-between space where love and worry sit side by side.
I find myself suspended in that space tonight as my husband, Dan, prepares for surgery early tomorrow morning. While I am grateful for modern medicine and hopeful for his relief, I am quietly anxious about what he is facing.
Surgery is never small to the people who love the one lying on the table. Even when it is routine.
Dan’s hernia surgery, which some may consider routine, is meant to help him feel better; to ease the pain that has slowly woven itself into our daily life. We know this is the right step. But knowing does not erase our nerves. It does not quiet the part of me that imagines him waking up sore and exhausted, or the part of me that simply wishes I could take away his pain.
When you live with chronic illness, as both Dan and I do with our Multiple Sclerosis, you become well acquainted with uncertainty.
Our lives are shaped by doctors’ appointments, infusions, symptom management medications, and constant reminders of MS. We have learned how fragile our bodies can be and how resilient the human spirit must become in response.
But even with all of that experience, this feels different.
This time, it is not my body in the spotlight. It is the man I love.
There is a particular helplessness in watching someone you love walk into pain willingly, even for the promise of healing. I cannot fix this for him. I cannot protect him from the discomfort that will come after the anesthesia and pain medicine fade.
All I can do is sit beside him, hold his hand, try to make him smile, and trust that the very thing causing anxiety tonight will bring relief in the days ahead.
Dan and I have built a life where we face hard things together. MS taught us early on that marriage is not about perfection or ease. It is about showing up on good days and bad ones, in waiting rooms and recovery rooms, in moments of strength and moments of fear.
Tonight, love looks very simple.
It looks like us eating an early dinner so we are ready for bed by 10 p.m.
Like setting two alarms and double-checking pre-surgery instructions.
Like whispering, “We’ve got this,” even when our words are peppered with a hint of uncertainty.
Tomorrow at 8:50 a.m., Dan will be wheeled into surgery.
I will sit somewhere nearby watching the clock. Saying silent prayers. Trusting that my husband, my partner-in-crime, my love, will get the repair he needs to return to our routine, everyday life.
If there is one thing that MS has taught us, it is that routine and stability should be cherished and appreciated.
Sometimes, routine is getting up in the morning and walking (or rolling) into the unknown, all while believing that relief is worth the temporary pain.
Tomorrow, Dan will do exactly that. And I will be there waiting and hoping, ready to welcome him back on the other side of healing.
Source: acoupletakesonms.com