I can still vividly recall the nausea and anxiety that I felt that night before my surgery. There were a few tears as I watched the time slowly creep closer and closer to my early morning wake-up call.

When I woke up a few hours later, the nerves were still there. I put on my cozy flannel, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks. My hospital bag was pre-packed and ready so within five minutes, I was sitting by the door just waiting. I couldn’t get any words to leave my throat. They just stuck there.

I looked through encouraging texts my friends had sent me the night before, wishing me luck and praying for courage. I read them over and over as a sort of meditative exercise. Then I repeated the same bible verse over and over in my head while massaging the palms of my hands.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not fear. In green pastures he makes me lie down. Even when I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.

I was taken to my room in day surgery. This was because they were optimistic that things would go well; that they would only remove half of my thyroid and I’d be sent on my way within a few hours.

My mom and I sat there, not really wanting to talk but unsure what to do while we waited.

The clock ticked slowly. The gown was difficult to tie in the back. The IV pinched my hand whenever I moved. I kept having to repeat my name and birthday to everyone who came in to look at me.

My surgeon came by to let me know that he was alert and ready. He reassured me all would go well. I gave him a thumbs up. The anesthesiologist came, gave me something that turned my stomach warm, and the last thing I remember was waving to my mom as I was wheeled away.

It’s such a strange feeling, waking up from the anesthesia. It is such a relief to realize the surgery is over! Whether it was good or bad, it’s done! And you got to miss it all. The blurry nurse in front of me told me it went well. I remember I kept trying to hold her hand.

Then my surgeon came by. I asked immediately if they took out half or whole.

Half meant it was benign. Whole meant it was cancer.

He told me “whole”. It all had to be removed. No more thyroid.

I asked him that question about five more times before he walked away, hoping maybe for a different answer or that it was just the drugs I was on that made me mishear him.

Then I was back asleep, floating in and out of consciousness. I would get hit with a wave of nausea and dizziness anytime I was awake, making it much more preferable to sleep away and pretend this wasn’t actually happening.

A new nurse came in, Ed, who warned me not to throw up. He told me that the vomit would come out of my freshly cut-opened neck. He had me imagine my fragile stitches being ripped out as vomit seeped directly out of my throat.

I fought so hard to keep it in as I processed this absolutely terrifying thought. However the second I had to get up to use the bathroom, I hurled into a bag next to me as the nicer nurse rubbed my back and told me it was okay. I looked up at her after and was close to tears, assuming my incision had torn open or something like Ed had suggested it would, but thankfully it caused no harm.

After that I was escorted to the bathroom, and the nurses complimented me on my color coming back to my face and lips. I laid there, never letting go of my mom’s hand, confused and disoriented at everything going on around me.

I was told I was being discharged. They asked me when I was leaving. I couldn’t sit up by myself and had a drain coming out of my neck that was collecting blood. I was so confused that me going home was even suggested.

I later learned that there were not enough beds at the hospital due to the influx of Covid patients, so there was no choice but for me to leave. I was told to come back tomorrow to have my drain removed.

The thought of a thirty-minute car ride to my house and then back again, first thing in the morning, sounded dreadful. With my nausea I did not think I’d be able to handle that well.

But Ed’s shift was ending, and he told me I was fine, regardless of the fact that I felt very, very, not fine.

They safety pinned my blood pouch so it was sitting in the frocket of my flannel. I could feel the warmth of my blood on my bare chest.

I was warned that if I did not walk each day, I would get a blood clot. Again, that throwing up, would cause disaster to my incision. And that if I dehydrated myself, I would probably pass out.

And with that send off, I was wheeled to the front entrance and taken home.