I have been waiting for my 10th surgery in two and a half years.

The hernia we attempted to fix last year didn’t hold. I remember sneezing three days after surgery and feeling the individual stitches pop—one by one. With every little pop, the dread deepened. I knew. Before anyone had to tell me, I knew something had gone wrong.

And almost instantly, that dread turned inward.

I cursed the fat that had developed around my midsection.

I developed PCOS in my early twenties. The weight gain came fast, and before I knew it, my beautiful, slim body had curves for miles. At first, I didn’t mind the curves. But they kept developing until, eventually, those curves were bordering on rolls. Youth kept everything relatively where God intended it to stay—until I had my first major abdominal surgery.

That surgery required a zipper-like incision from my navel all the way down to my pubic bone.

It was lifesaving, and I was incredibly thankful for it. But afterward, I was left with a very distinct roll beneath my stomach.

During that surgery, an artery was nicked. Thank God they were able to stop the bleeding before I bled out. I spent the night in the hospital for observation, and my life was saved.

One less gallbladder.
One less illness.
And one very grateful woman.

I remember hurting in a way I had never hurt before, but I was alive.

That was the first time I woke up from surgery thanking God for the expertise of the surgeons at this hospital.

It would not be the last time I would wake up with another zipper-like incision—or with the overwhelming wonder of realizing, once again, that God had chosen to keep me on this planet.

I am still thanking God for these surgeons who have saved my life repeatedly.

But I digress...

After several delays, my surgery was finally scheduled for late July 2026.

This time, I was better prepared.

I still had my song—the one I listen to right before they put me under. I had discussed pain management with my surgeon, and we had a good plan. I had purchased a new bed that articulated so I wouldn’t have to use my abdominal muscles to sit up. I even bought one of those chairs for the living room that practically launches you into a standing position.

Yes, the advertisements said they were for geriatric patients.

Yes, that made me feel ancient.

And yes, I bought the damn chair anyway.

I was prepared.

I had thought of everything I could possibly think of, including several pairs of new pajamas for my hospital stay so I could be comfortable and not completely reliant on those hospital gowns strategically designed to display crevices and cracks better left unseen.

Finally, surgery day arrived.

There I was in the drafty moo-moo they call surgical attire. I had a quick conversation with my surgeon and reminded him about the epidural we had agreed on. He assured me he had already discussed it with anesthesia.

Then my anesthesiologist, Dr. S., came in.

We talked about the epidural—what they were going to do, what could go wrong, and how they were going to make it happen.

My sister had warned me ahead of time that getting an epidural was incredibly un-fun. Painful. Uncomfortable. A horrible sensation in your back.

Fine.

I was prepared for pain.

I am no stranger to pain.

I was ready.

Dr. S. gave me some fentanyl beforehand to help.

And I have to say...

It worked like a charm.

I barely felt anything.

For approximately thirty glorious seconds, I was extremely impressed with myself.

Look at me!

I thought.

My pain tolerance is incredible.

I was strong!

I was brave!

I was...

higher than a kite.

AND!!!!

Apparently, I felt the need to announce this discovery to everyone I encountered on the way to the operating room.

Not once.

Repeatedly.

Which might not have been quite so horrifying if I didn’t work with some of these people.

They were now getting a firsthand demonstration of what happens when Marie receives narcotic pain medication.

I have NOOOOOOO tolerance.

None.

I greeted the first surgeon I saw with enormous enthusiasm, a huge smile, and a very loud:

“THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!”

Which was apparently my opening act.

I then moved seamlessly into informing everyone that I was high.

I was giggling.

This supposedly sophisticated professional woman was loudly behaving like a drunken schoolgirl who had just taken her first sip of wine and discovered she could no longer control her giggles.

Eventually, they wheeled me up next to the operating table and asked me to move myself over.

This seemed reasonable.

Except, in my current condition, my chosen method of transportation involved scissoring my butt cheeks one at a time and inching myself sideways across the bed until I somehow made it onto the operating table.

Success.

Then came the standard questions.

“Please state your name and date of birth.”

I proudly announced both.

Nailed it.

And then came the doozy.

“Marie, in your own words, please tell us what we are doing today.”

The intelligent, educated professional woman who works alongside some of these people had apparently left the building.

In her place was a fentanyl-influenced airhead who immediately responded:

“Ohhhh... you don’t want me to do that.”

The nurse, God bless her, calmly asked:

“Why?”