An Angel in Scrubs

Fourth in the Journey with Cancer Series

Immersed in the Darkness

“I am only conscious of darkness—vast, endless, swallowing. No sound, no sight. A weightless abyss stretching beyond comprehension. I must be dead. My family and friends are gone. There is only this suffocating, boundless void. It grips me, holds me still. Is this all there is?

A sound.

So faint I question if I imagined it. A whisper, threading through the nothingness. A voice, just barely there.

“Do you need anything?”

Sounds seep into the darkness. Distant, rhythmic. A beeping, a hum, the soft shuffle of movement. Light flickers at the edge of my perception, but I can’t focus. My mind struggles to surface, drifting between awareness and oblivion.

“Do you need anything?”

The voice again—thin but steady, threading through the haze. It feels distant, yet close enough to touch. And then, without thought, my own voice—scratchy, unfamiliar—pushes out words I don’t expect.

“Could you brush my teeth?”

Teeth. I have teeth. And a mouth—dry, bitter, saturated with something vile. I am here. I am not dead. But this is not my hospital room. Not where I thought I would be.

Time slides, warps. A nurse appears, gentle hands brushing away the awful taste, easing me into a new awareness. An angel, moving with quiet grace, tending to every need while I drift in and out of the dark. I cannot move, cannot ask the questions circling weakly in my mind.

A Lonely Awakening

I am in intensive care.

My family is not here.

Where are they?

The thought lingers, then fades, lost as unconsciousness claims me again.

Eventually, I learned why my family wasn’t there. The surgery had stretched on—eleven and a half hours. They had come, seen me, but exhaustion pulled them home. It was late. They needed rest and so did I.

Between Uncertainty and Hope

Morning arrived like a slow ache. The pain sharp now, unmistakable. My body: heavy, raw, adjusting to something new. And then—another realization: the halo is gone. It wasn’t supposed to be, it wasn’t needed.

Things are different. Not as planned. Not as expected. I can sense the changes, though their full shape evades me. In this drifting state, the details blur, shifting just beyond my grasp. But what I do catch—what lingers—is reassuring. So far, the differences seem… good.”

Figures drift in and out. Nurses, doctors—I see them, but only briefly. Their presence is quick, fleeting, just as I am. Consciousness slips and returns in uneven waves. It doesn’t matter. I’m not here for long either.

At last, I stabilize. The news comes: I’ll be moved to my room soon.“

The Hardest Move of My Life

The move remains etched in my memory as one of the most agonizing experiences of my life. Even after three decades, I can vividly recall the unbearable sensitivity to every jolt and bump, especially in the elevator. Each motion felt magnified, as though my body had become a vessel for pain. The journey to my room stretched on endlessly, but we finally arrived. I had been transferred to a private room to accommodate the steady flow of visitors. Despite the relief offered by the patient-controlled morphine pump, the pain was unrelenting, all consuming.

The Colors of Care

My mom and sister were by my side, along with my aunt. The room was a kaleidoscope of warmth and color, adorned with cards, balloons, flowers, and stuffed animals. It was a joy to have so many beautiful things to brighten the space. Later that day, my other aunt arrived with a yellow hot air balloon filled with Hershey kisses, its vibrant presence taking up an entire corner of the room.

A Brace, a Beetle, and Belly Laughs

In the ICU, I realized I wasn’t wearing the halo as expected. Instead, I had a different type of brace—one that extended down to my chest, with two metal posts rising to my skull, where another band of metal encircled my head, its front piece supporting my chin. My ever-humorous family wasted no time in pointing out that I could go as a Volkswagen Beetle for Halloween, sending laughter rippling through the room.

Discovering Hope in Motion

Clues began to emerge, each hinting at a reality better than expected. First, I noticed I had feeling in my toes and legs and could move them. Then, as I shifted slightly, a new realization set in—I could feel the weight of my left arm, and with cautious effort, I moved it. One by one, the signs kept appearing, each confirming that my recovery was defying the expectations when I went into surgery.

During one visit, the nurses informed me they’d soon be back to get me up and see how far I could walk. Nervous about the pain but unwilling to back down, I took it as a challenge. With two nurses by my side, I made my way around the hall—one determined step at a time—until I completed the full circle. Success! Exhausted, I sank back into bed.

A Mystery on My Skull

Then came another surprise. I ran my hand over the back of my head and realized it had been shaved. I hadn’t known they were going to do that. Four distinct wounds marked my skull, their presence a mystery. I later learned that during surgery, I had been placed on my stomach, with my head and neck suspended over the floor. To keep me stable, they had used an apparatus—one they had attached directly to my skull. Oh, the things we only learn afterward.

Circles of Strength

Collyn, my boyfriend, came to visit, bringing with him stories of what had unfolded while I was in surgery. The waiting room had been filled with forty people—family, friends, and loved ones—standing by to support my parents and sister. Collyn and his mother, realizing how long the wait would be, set out to bring back a feast of sandwiches and finger foods, ensuring everyone had something to sustain them.

Most of the time I was in surgery, they stayed, filling the hours with conversation and card games, creating a sense of togetherness while waiting for any word on my condition. The doctors came out periodically, offering updates at different stages of the procedure.

Finally, after eleven and a half grueling hours, the surgery was complete. My family was notified that I had been moved to the ICU, but only two visitors could enter at a time. Still, the overwhelming support from those who had gathered was an incredible honor—proof of the love and strength that surrounded me.

The Medicine of Laughter

Collyn insisted on being the first to see me in the ICU, alongside my mom. He told us he took one look at me and—much to everyone’s amusement—declared that I resembled a cabbage patch doll. His knack for storytelling turned the observation into a full-blown comedy routine, filling the room with laughter. Deep, uncontrollable belly laughs. At times, the nurses had to step in to quiet things down—a good reminder of why my private room was so necessary. Remember, laughter is the powerful medicine.

He also shared how the hospital had gone out of its way to support my family, rolling out the red carpet in ways we hadn’t expected. Special parking privileges, unusual accommodations—little gestures that made an enormous difference. It comforted me to know my support team was being cared for just as much as I was.

When Optimism Becomes a Lifeline

That night, sleep was elusive. The pain was relentless, and the lingering effects of surgery brought another challenge—constipation. By the next day, nausea took hold, leaving me unable to keep anything down. Collyn stayed close, holding the tub when I couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time. Despite the discomfort, my spirits remained high. My family and friends filled the room with stories, sharing glimpses of their lives, their voices weaving warmth into the moment. And through it all, I held onto optimism—because, against all odds, the outcome continued to exceed expectations.

Standing My Ground, Trusting My Gut

I surprised myself with my stubborn resolve. When my surgeons insisted that fusing all the bones in the front of my neck was necessary, I pushed back—firmly convinced it wasn’t. The debate stretched across my week in the hospital, each side standing its ground. But in the end, I won them over. Now, more than thirty years later, I look back with certainty—we made the right decision, and I feel grateful that I followed my intuition.

Recovery, Rediscovery, and the Road Ahead

I healed as much as I could within the walls of the hospital, but it was time to step into the real world—into rehabilitation, into rediscovery, into the process of forging a new way forward. That’s when the true challenges began.

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What Lies Ahead You Ask?

Look for the next story in my journey: Testing My Resolve

Question: Do you have an example where laughter was the best medicine to lighten a heavy load? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.