As I sit at the dining table, mug of tea beside me, G has been prepped for his lobectomy. It is due to start any time now. I spoke to him just before he was wheeled down to the operating block, and sent him a follow-up text telling him that I love him. Hard to keep the wobble from my voice when I said that last “bye.” In fact, I failed. Dr. L figures that it will be 3 hours before he’s closed G’s chest and wheeled him through to the recovery room. He has told me that I may call the ICU between 5 & 6pm this evening to see how he fares. That’s a long day. Still, I’ve plenty to keep me busy.
And here’s a terrible confession: I am so terrified that he’ll not work hard on his rehab and have a terrible quality of life post-surgery that he (and I) may wish that he’d died on the table. I can’t even believe that I’ve thought such a thing, let alone been able to write it. But the little voice of uncertainty has been getting louder and louder, and no amount of sticking my fingers in my ears and going “lalalalala” at the top of my voice is going to eradicate it, or drown it out. I’m reminded of a litany from James Herbert’s book, Dune, :
“I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain”
And with that thought, it is time to face my day, and my fear, with a smile on my face and confidence in my heart. And maybe some fingers crossed, too.