A few minutes ago, your nurse and the anesthesiologist finished their preparations and wheeled your bed out of preop to take you up to surgery.

The dog is asleep on the floor in the waiting room. I’m trying to ignore an episode of Storage Wars on the TV. But despite the distractions, seeping through every crack, every crevice of my  consciousness is the love I feel for you. It is intense and sudden and welcome. The past several weeks leading up to today, I have mostly been numb. 

Thoughts of what happens to me if you die in surgery have tapped incessantly on the back door of my thoughts. I have refused to answer, fearing I wouldn’t be able to scream loud enough to chase that ghoul back to the nagging hell it came from. 

Can I instead invite that thought, that fear, in to chat, offer it tea and cakes? What a guru idea that would be. Honestly, I am not sure such a hooligan is worth entertaining. 

But should the worst happen, I will need to invite grief in to sit and tell me what it knows about my heart, to teach me what I lack. This is a friendship I am willing to delay indefinitely. 

The nurse, Erica, has called my phone twice now. The new valve is in. So far so good. I am humbled by the emotion that comes so easily as the nurse updates me on your condition. 

My molten concern has been bubbling just beneath a crust of my emotional resolve these past few weeks. Now, it erupts with each update from the OR. How I love these people whose work it is to save others. 

Erica called again. The surgery is almost done. I begin to cry as I comprehend the truth of this news. The surgeon will be here soon to talk to me as you begin the recovery process. Praise be to my God for the mercy he showers upon me. 

suddenly, dog turns

faces the wind driven rain—

snowy times have passed