The Hardest Part Was Waiting

I was lying there, not really tired but not fully awake either. The ceiling above me looked the same no matter how long I stared at it. I remember the coldness of the sheets pressed against my side, the weight of the chest tube taped to my skin, and the rhythmic ticking of the pulse oximeter clipped to my finger. I tried to focus on that rhythm, to stay calm, but every few minutes, my thoughts would spiral again.

Earlier that day, the doctors had inserted a chest tube to help reinflate my lung. They told me it was likely a spontaneous pneumothorax, maybe worsened by leftover scar tissue from the pneumonia I had as a kid. When they told me there was a good chance the lung would recover on its own, I believed them. I tried to.

But hours passed, and nothing improved. I was told gently that my lung had collapsed again as soon as they took off the vacuum. That I would need surgery. A pleurectomy and wedge resection. A procedure I had never heard of before became the only way forward. There were no other options.

I nodded, trying to stay calm, trying to understand every word, but all I could feel was the sinking weight in my chest. It wasn’t just fear of the operation. It was the helplessness. The realization that my own body had turned against me. The betrayal breathing, which was something so basic, yet something we all take for granted.

That night, I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. Not because of the pain, though it was there, dull and constant. I wanted to cry because for the first time in years, I didn’t feel in control of my life. I had worked so hard to stay healthy, to run, to build strength and routine into my days. But here I was, lying in a hospital bed again. Hooked up to machines. Waiting to be cut open so I could breathe again.

The hardest part wasn’t the diagnosis, or even the idea of going under. It was the waiting. The stillness before everything changed. My body was already exhausted from trying to breathe, and now my mind was running laps around what-if scenarios I couldn’t control.

Would I wake up different? Would it happen again? What if something went wrong?

I remember a nurse coming in briefly to check the tube and IV. She smiled at me and said, “Try going to your happy place, it helps.” I smiled back, but inside I was frozen. I didn’t have a happy place. At least not one I could hold onto right then. My mind kept drifting to the operating room. To the anesthesia. To the uncertainty.

And maybe that was the one thing I did have. I understood. I knew what it meant to feel small in a big system. To wait. To fear. To hope.

I don’t remember falling asleep that night. But I remember the hours leading up to the surgery feeling like a lifetime. I kept breathing, slowly, one inhale at a time. Each breath was shallow, careful, and laced with uncertainty. But it was mine.

The next morning, I was wheeled into the operating room. I looked up at the ceiling tiles as they passed, counting them just to keep my mind busy. My body was cold. My thoughts were loud. But beneath it all, there was something else too, a quiet resolve.

This surgery wouldn’t be the end of my story. It would be a chapter I would carry with me. Not just as a scar on my chest, but as a reminder that healing takes courage. That vulnerability is part of being human. That breath, however small, is always worth fighting for.

For now, I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythm of the monitor, letting each small, careful breath remind me that I’m still breathing.

And that’s more than enough…

-Linkai