Dancing with Illusions: Finding Faith Beyond Fear

Number four in the Journey with Cancer Series

Preparations for the Journey Ahead

August 11, 1987—an ordinary summer day, a bright blue sky illuminated in sunshine. But beneath the warmth, tension lingered in the air. It was the day before my surgery, and the reality of what lay ahead was settling in. My hospital check-in marked the beginning of preparations, each step drawing me closer to surgery and the unknown outcome.

I packed my bag, knowing that each item I placed inside carried me one step closer to the inevitable. With everything in place, we set off.

Our first stop was my orthopedic surgeon’s office, where precise measurements had to be taken to determine the angle of my cervical spine’s curve. These calculations would ensure that the metal rod, waiting to be shaped in the operating room, fit just right.

Acapellas

After that, we decided to pause for something familiar—a meal at Acapellas, a restaurant in Denver, Colorado that no longer exists but still holds a special place in my memory. Their hamburgers and specially prepared and seasoned French fries were a favorite, and for a brief moment, as I sat there with my mom, dad, and sister, everything felt normal. We kept the conversation light, letting laughter soften the edges of the uncertainty ahead. Somehow, as a family, we had a way of finding humor even in the heaviest moments.

Checking In & More Preparations

The next stop was the hospital for check-in. After completing the paperwork, we made our way to my room—a shared space with two beds. In the other bed, an older woman rested peacefully in recovery, a young woman by her side reading quietly, their presence grounding the room in an unspoken stillness.

Nurses and surgeons came and went, each visit layering more details onto the plan for my surgery. They walked me through the procedure, the risks, and the precautions. Their steady reassurances softened some of my apprehension, and they answered every question with precision, ensuring I was as prepared as possible.

A specialized team arrived to run tests on a machine designed to monitor my nervous system during surgery—its purpose was critical, acting as an alert if the surgeons came too close to my spinal cord. Electrodes, covered in a gooey slime, were placed all over my body as they carefully set up the system. It took some adjustments to get everything working properly, but eventually, they were satisfied.

Later, another specialist came in to introduce me to the halo apparatus—a device that would accompany me into the operating room, waiting to be installed at the end of my procedure. They explained how it would be secured—holes drilled into my skull for the screws, stabilizing my spine so it could heal correctly. When the explanation ended, the halo was placed on a table in the corner, directly within my line of sight. Its presence was unmistakable, a silent reminder of what was to come.

Much Needed Support

Through it all, my family remained by my side, absorbing every word the medical staff shared, offering their support in quiet, unwavering ways. My aunt stopped by after work, and soon after, my other aunt and uncle—who had walked beside me on my journey along the yellow brick road—came to visit. My aunt handed me a new book: Illusions by Richard Bach, a small gesture that would soon carry profound meaning.

Later, my boyfriend Collyn arrived, filling the room with humor, his lighthearted energy crackling through the charged air, easing the tension that had settled in. But as the evening wore on, the nurses insisted that everyone say their goodbyes, giving me space to rest.

And then, for the first time, I was truly alone—with nothing but the halo apparatus staring back at me from the corner.

Facing the Inevitable – Being Alone & The Unknown

Now, I was alone. The halo apparatus sat in the corner, its cold presence unshakable, watching.

Fear and anxiety swelled inside me, creeping up in waves as I imagined what I would wake to the next day—the unknown loomed large, pressing down on me with relentless weight. The possibilities spiraled in my mind, each one darker than the last. Paralysis. Pain. Loss.

But I knew I couldn’t stay in this place. Letting my thoughts run wild wouldn’t change the outcome, and drowning in television wouldn’t numb the reality of what lay ahead. Instead, I reached for my new book—Illusions—and began to read.

My Dance with Illusions

As I immersed myself in my reading and danced with Illusions, something inside me stirred. New ideas, new possibilities, and unexpected beliefs began to take shape. The world was shifting—not in its physical form, but in my perception of it. Fear and anxiety, once gripping me so tightly, slowly loosened their hold.

A nurse entered the room, offering sleeping pills to ease me into rest. But by then, I had tapped into something greater—the words on the pages were working their own kind of magic. I wasn’t ready to close the book.

“I don’t think I’ll need those tonight,” I told her.

She reminded me of the importance of sleep before surgery. I nodded, acknowledging her concern but knowing that I had found something far more powerful in the moments I was living.

I continued reading, pausing occasionally to absorb what was unfolding within me. A connection was growing—one beyond the tangible, beyond reason. To God, to spirit, to the universe—whatever name one might give it, the label didn’t matter. The depth of the connection did.

With every page, my heart opened wider, and fear evaporated. By the time I finished the book, I knew—I could not control the outcome of the surgery, but I had a deep knowing that everything would be okay. If I woke up paralyzed, if I never woke up at all—no matter what awaited me—I had faith.

And that faith carried me into sleep, wrapping me in peace. I had found what I needed. I had let go of fear.

Revealing the Wizard: The Courage to Face the Unknown

That night, I stepped beyond the curtain and met the wizard in the Emerald Palace. He revealed what had always been within me—my heart, resilient and unwavering; my courage, stronger than I had ever known; and my mind, open and ready to face the monumental challenge ahead.

The nurse arrived early the next morning, her presence signaling the final steps before surgery. She gave me precise instructions—how to shower, which products to use, and the gown I needed to wear. I followed each step carefully, the ritual marking the transition from preparation to inevitability.

When I returned to my room, my parents and sister were waiting. Their expressions told me everything—the unspoken fear, the quiet determination to stay strong for me. My mom, ever resilient, masked her worry, but I could see it in the way she held herself.

Wheeled Away, Unwavering: My Last Words Before Surgery

The nurse finished preparing me, placing the halo at the foot of my bed, its weight symbolic of the journey ahead. Then, she wheeled me out of the room and down the hall. My mom walked beside me, her hand wrapped around mine—steady, warm, unwavering.

As we moved forward, my dad shared that the waiting room was already filling up with family and friends, all gathering to support us through this day of unknowns. Their presence was a reminder—we weren’t facing this alone.

I could feel the concern radiating from my mom, from my family. But in that moment, I met their worry with certainty.

“Everything is going to be okay,” I told them, my voice strong, my heart steady. “No matter what happens.”

And then, I was wheeled away.

Into the Operating Room: The Moment of Faith

The next step was the IV—something that should have been routine, yet once again, they missed the vein. The sharp sting, followed by the unsettling spread of fluids beneath my skin, sent pain radiating through my arm.

Sensing my discomfort, they brought my mom back to sit with me, her presence a silent reassurance as the final preparations unfolded around us. The operating room was nearly ready. The moment was here.

When the time came, they wheeled me in. The sterile brightness, the quiet hum of machines, the controlled precision of the surgical team—it was all set in motion. I had to remain awake as they connected the nervous system monitoring unit, its purpose critical, ensuring they would stay safely away from my spinal cord.

Then, at last, everything was in place.

And I let go.

What Happens Next?

Look for the next post in My Journey with Cancer Series: An Angel in Scrubs

Question: Have you faced your own journey with faith? Please let me know in the comments.