The surgery itself went alright, but my post-op recovery was tumultuous. I had multiple allergic reactions to medications, a severe stomach bleed, a nasal-gastric tube that caused a stomach ulcer, and a lost stitch that wound itself around muscle so badly that I had to go digging for it the day I was discharged.
It wasn't exactly smooth.
The day that I had the stomach bleed was the most severe. I had been horrendously nauseated for days. All I wanted was to vomit to feel better, and for it to be anything except stomach acid and bile. A bucket was perpetually in my hands and I could barely stand without vomiting or dry-heaving. Then I got my wish. Something came out (and a whole lot of it)... and it wasn't bile or stomach acid. That brief moment of relief was short-lived.
It was blood.
Before I knew it, my roommate and my parents had been ushered out of the room and I was surrounded by nurses, doctors, and an x-ray technician. The pain was so intense that I was literally writhing on the bed.
Everything was chaotic - nurses holding me still, shoving a nasal-gastric tube down to my stomach, being positioned for x-rays with the mobile machine, measuring my blood output, and trying to figure out what the hell happened.
Then, quiet.
I couldn't hear or see anything. I also couldn't feel anything - no pain, no nausea, nothing. It was as though everything just paused. It couldn't have been more than a few milliseconds, but everything stopped.
I didn't hear any kind of a voice. I didn't see any kind of a light, no pathway, no gate. I experienced something else entirely:
A decision.
In that brief moment, I suddenly knew that I had a choice. I knew that if I let go, I would never have to experience any pain again. That would be the end, right then and there, and I would go blissfully and gently away from this broken body.
However, if I decided to stay, I was making the conscious decision to fight. I would have to accept that I would be in pain every day, and that I would have to fight each day for the rest of my life.
I chose to fight.
Maybe that's part of figuring out how to cope with these kinds of illnesses. While my life was on pause, I was actually given the opportunity to either choose to live in this body, or to cut and run. So now when I have a really hard time, I remind myself that (in some cosmic way) I chose this. I promised to keep fighting; I was given a way out and chose to stay anyways. Despite the pain and the illness.
So whatever comes at me, I owe it to myself to keep going.
Was it a moment with God? Was it a trauma-induced hallucination? Was it just my brain firing random thoughts because I was so near death? Did I actually choose, or was it pure fantasy?
And does it really matter?
I can't remember if I have ever shared this story beyond my immediate family, but this was one of the most pivotal moments in my life when it concerns my illnesses.
I don't automatically think that I am 'destined to do great things' or that I was kept alive for some gargantuan, predetermined, purpose. To know great love, to live a simple life, and to find happiness through all of the muck is more than enough for me.
