Twelve hours ago, I was lying on a hospital bed with an IV in my arm, waiting to be wheeled into surgery.
I wasn’t worried about dying. But I felt completely alone.
I was just having a hernia repaired, so I wasn’t in serious danger. Until I had a sudden abdominal obstruction late last December, I had no idea the problem was even there. Doctors told me at the time that I was fortunate that the intestine which poked through the hernia hadn’t been damaged, which would have caused serious surgery.
Even though it wasn’t considered serious, I was nervous. I’m not fond of being knocked out and cut on. An old friend who I’ve known since high school was kind enough to pick me up early Thursday morning and take me to the hospital. She sat there with me and talked as I was being prepped.
But as much as I appreciated her concern and help, I couldn’t help feeling very alone. I’ve had surgery only three times in my life — all in the last 15 years — and each time I’ve had one of these emergencies, it’s been a time when I’ve been alone in life.
As I laid there this morning having an IV inserted and having various equipment attached, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something symbolic about that. Was it just a coincidence that each of my medical emergencies have happened when I’ve been alone?

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