Brave in the Broken

My eyes filled with tears. But this was not a time to cry. This was a time to choose bravery, a time to place my trust, a time to fight.

- “You are going to wake up. This isn’t the end. Today the tumor loses. This is the day. You got to fight. Okay? Stay strong. Alright? Got to be brave. Be brave. You have to be brave. Okay? Let’s do this. You are not alone. God’s fighting for you, but you got to trust, okay? You have to be brave today. Let’s go. Be Brave. You’re going to wake up.”

After whispering these things to myself on the mirror, I walked out of the bathroom and lied back in bed, waiting to be taken to the OR. Before being wheeled to the OR floor, I got a phone call. It was from Dr. Vasilis. I had tried calling him the night before, but the call hadn’t gone through. Maybe it didn’t go through because God knew I would most need the hope that Dr Vasilis could give me that morning and not the night before. The timing was perfect. He told me that everything was going to work out perfectly, that he was going to pray for me, and he encouraged me by reminding me that this day was all that we had been expecting for the longest time. Before we hang up the phone he told me to be brave. As if he had heard what I told myself that morning. As if he knew what my heart needed to hear. God is in the details. Hope is in the details. In random words, in little moments. That’s why many miss that overwhelming hope. Because they are too busy looking for it in big ways, in situational circumstances. But true hope is hidden in the meaningful details of our situation not in the situation itself. Meaning and purpose and joy are found in the stars of the night sky, not in the sun of the daytime.

Laying there in my bed, I saw the “X” that was drawn on my leg. I was so grateful for the 14 years I had with my knee. I was grateful for the adventures I had taken, for the runs I had gone on, for the hikes, the silly races at school, the soccer games I had won because of that knee. All my anxiety was transformed into gratitude, just by staring at that “X”. The clock that was ticking down to the big mo-ment. As the nurses wheeled me towards the elevator, I took that pill they had given me. On the outside it really helped, since it relaxed my muscles, helping me with the trembling and high heart rate that anxiety had caused. However, deep in my heart I was overwhelmed by a strange peace. Deeper and more profound than that of a simple “sunset feeling”. This felt more like a very distant and bright star, one that sparkled and reflected its light all across the dark sky. It was a peace that surpassed all understanding. It was a peace that stemmed from the choice I had made, to use my fear as a foundation for faith to grow deeper. That peace was the result of my choice to trust, to hope, to be brave. Was I still scared? Absolutely. Did I still have doubts? Absolutely. But in the midst of that fear, and in the very midst of these doubts, I chose to be brave enough to keep going.

Before entering the OR corridor, we stopped at the “good-bye door”. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Visitors and family members are not allowed past that door. Something like the “goodbye corner” at the airport. My family hugged me tight. I smiled at them. My mom held my hand, squeezed it tight, and started crying. I squeezed it back tighter.

- “It’s all going to be okay mom. I promise.” I told her and smiled.

I hugged my sister and everyone else. I saw their eyes. They were red. Some filled with tears, some soon-to-be. It was overwhelming, but I had to be brave. I was transferred to the surgical gurney and then wheeled in a prep-room. There, Dr. M came in and placed my IV line. He told me that he would place all the other lines once I was asleep, so that I wouln’t have to be in pain. Dr. M then started the process of placing the nerve blocks, the two catheters that would paralyze my leg. He was teaching some medical students how to do this procedure and that made the waiting longer. The insertion of the catheters was really painful but thankfully it was quick. Dr M. then placed the oxygen mask on my face and said:

- “Are you ready? We’re about to start”

I took a deep breath and starred at the clock. 9:27am. I wasn’t ready. Not nearly ready. But I had to be brave.

- “Okay” I said confidently.

That simple word hid so many thoughts and sentences. It hid prayers, tears, conversations, dreams, goals, fears, promises. It hid pain, doubt, uncertainty, and yet it also hid undeniable faith, trust and courage. It’s like my faith had been tested all these months, my trust had been challenged, my de-termination had matured through what I had gone through, all leading to this moment, to this choice, to this one single word: “okay”. It felt as if all the preparation of the waiting room, all the persever-ance of the suffering, had all been teaching me to say that one word, to that one “okay”. As Dr M. injected the anesthesia he asked me to count down from ten. When I reached number 8 I started get-ting really dizzy. My body felt paralyzed and a sense of heaviness overwhelmed me.

“This is on you God” I thought as I went under. “I leave this on you…. And I…I’ll be brave”.