Arrival: A Symphony of Lives
I arrived at the hospital where the procedure was to be done—a busy university hospital, alive with movement and purpose. It was packed with people from all walks of life, each at a different stage of their journey. Patients, visitors, medical staff from junior nurses to senior consultants, students, supply workers—each one carrying their own story, their own reason for being there.
What struck me most was the diversity of perspectives. Everyone saw the moment through a different lens, and yet each view was valid. The nurse finishing a long shift. The student worrying about exams and lectures. The visitor quietly hoping for good news. The patient, like me, bracing for what’s next. All of it real. All of it connected.
It felt like life itself—messy, layered, and somehow harmonious. A living symphony of struggle, care, learning, and hope.
Oddly enough, these observations helped me settle. I stopped mourning the past. I stopped fearing the future. I simply became present. Not in some grand spiritual sense, but in a grounded, practical way. I focused on the now. On the next step. The next meal. The next medication. The next examination.
I wasn’t thinking about the journey’s destination anymore. Just the rhythm of the routine. The small tasks that made up each day. And in that rhythm, the deep fear I’d been carrying began to loosen its grip.
Just for now. Just for the present.
Waiting, Watching, and the Weight of Timing
After arriving at the hospital, I went through the usual routine: weight, height, blood pressure, ECG. I was told the next medical visit would be sometime after 8 p.m., depending on the doctors’ availability. Since I’d arrived early in the afternoon, I had a few hours to settle in—unpack my things, tuck them into the cupboard, and lie back in bed.
There was nothing to do. Nothing to distract me. Except one small concern: my throat felt a little rough.
It wasn’t a good sign—not in early February, and not with COVID restrictions freshly reinstated across the hospital. I couldn’t afford to get sick. A delay could cost me dearly. Possibly even my life.
But I pushed those thoughts aside.
That evening, the medical team visited and confirmed I was scheduled for surgery the following afternoon. It was scary, yes—but at least I had a plan. A timeline. Something solid to hold onto.
Then the next day, everything changed.
An urgent case came in, and both my operation and my roommate’s were postponed. I waited for the evening round to learn more. By then, my throat had worsened, and my roommate had started coughing. Just great, I thought.
When the team arrived, they confirmed I would be operated on the next morning. My roommate, however, was in no shape to proceed. He was discharged. The doctors explained that if they operated—cutting into the sternum—it would be extremely painful and dangerous for someone actively coughing. He was told to recover at home for a week and return directly when well, without needing to rejoin the waiting list.
That moment hit me hard.
It was a stark reminder of how fragile timing can be. How lucky I was to have discovered my condition when I did. To be in the right place, at the right time, with the right team.
Because in reality, people die while waiting. Sometimes for years. Waiting for procedures. Waiting for answers. Waiting for a chance.
I felt grateful. Deeply, quietly grateful
The Day of the Operation
Morning came quickly.
I hadn’t eaten dinner the night before, and from midnight onward, no water passed my lips. The nurses confirmed I was still on the list for surgery, so that meant no breakfast, no drink. My roommate packed his things and arranged a lift home. I had a mild sore throat, but I chose not to mention it. I didn’t want anything to delay the procedure.
Then came the preparations.
I was shaved from neck to toe, front and back. Given a special antiseptic shower gel. Asked to trim my beard. Handed sterile towels and a green apron-like garment. And like before, I focused only on the moment—step by step, task by task. I was functioning almost fearlessly, not because I wasn’t afraid, but because I refused to let myself fully acknowledge what was coming.
Later, I was visited by the anesthetist and the surgeon who would perform the procedure. They explained everything calmly, professionally. There was no room for panic, no space for second thoughts. No way back.
I lay on the bed as a nurse began to push me through the corridors—the same ones I’d walked just days earlier. This time, I watched the ceiling lights pass overhead in slow rhythm, like stars in a quiet sky.
We reached the theatre preparation room. I was transferred to another bed and wheeled into the operating theatre—if I can call it that. To me, it felt more like a place of rebirth.
I stared up at the large surgical light above me. Around me, the staff chatted casually about everyday things—shopping, nails, weekend plans. It was surreal. Life continuing, even here.
Then the anesthetist appeared. She leaned in gently and said, “You’ll feel a little pinching sensation in your wrist.”
And just like that—I was gone.
I remember no more.