Four Hours That Became Twelve

Everything was set.

I chose to have my surgery at an outpatient surgery center. It was supposed to be a four hour procedure. Simple. Planned. Controlled.

My husband took the day off work so he could be there with me.

We arrived that morning and checked in, both of us quiet but hopeful. Soon after, I was taken back to be prepped for surgery. My husband stayed with me until the very last minute.

Before they wheeled me away, he leaned in, gave me a kiss, and told me he loved me.

I watched him walk away as they rolled me toward the operating room.

I remember distinctly having a thought in my mind that we should pray before the procedure began.

That still small voice.

In that moment, I didn’t listen.

I often wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had asked my doctor to pray with me. It’s a question I may never have an answer to. I guess I’ll have to wait until I meet Jesus to know.

The anesthesiologist told me to count down from ten.

I think I made it to eight.

And then I was out.

When I woke up from surgery, I immediately knew something wasn’t right.

There were three doctors and several other healthcare workers surrounding me.

Then I heard his voice.

My husband.

Telling me to be still.

Then he said, “You’ve been in surgery for twelve hours, and you’re being transported to the hospital now.”

Twelve hours.

What was supposed to be a four hour outpatient procedure had turned into something far more serious.

In that moment, I realized that nothing had gone as planned.