Saturday, 16 August 2025, past midnight
“Bu, bu, operasinya sudah selesai ya Bu.”
“Dingin… dingin…”
Those were the first words that came out of my mouth when I woke up from surgery. Not exactly poetic, but hey, when you’ve just survived laparoscopy and hysterectomy-laparotomy in one go, you don’t wake up quoting Shakespeare. You wake up asking for blankets.
I remember shivering, my teeth chattering, my body completely confused about what just happened. The nurses rushed to wrap me in layers, and I drifted in and out of consciousness, half-aware that my life had just been handed back to me, stitched and stapled and sewn together.
And honestly, that’s the thing about life, isn’t it? We often imagine survival arriving in big, cinematic ways. Dramatic music, bright lights, maybe even a slow clap. In reality, sometimes it shows up with a shaky whisper: “dingin… dingin…”
The doctors told my husband it was quite long, delicate surgery. My appendix alone took nearly an hour, and removing my myoma and womb stretched into another two and a half hour. With preparation and observation, it became more than six hours in total. A journey I took asleep, while those who love me carried the weight awake.
Through every minute, my husband, my children, my mom, and my parent in-laws waited in that hospital room. Six hours of quiet endurance, hearts tethered to mine though I lay far beyond their reach. Their waiting became my shield, their presence my anchor. To be so held in love, I can only call it grace.
 |
| Pic taken right before the nurse took me to the surgery room. They're all I need; my family <3 |
⚠️ WARNING: ONLY IF YOU HAVE GUTS!!
You can see how my inflamed appendix looked: here.
And my myoma and womb: here.
DON'T TELL ME I DIDN'T WARN YOU!!!
It sounds brutal when written out, but sitting here now, tapping these words with my still-sore belly, it feels almost unreal. Like a strange dream where pain, relief, fear, and gratitude swirl together in a cocktail you didn’t order but are forced to drink anyway.
The day right after surgery was a blur. I couldn’t type because the IV line was in my right hand, and I’m not nearly talented enough to blog with my left. Besides, I was too busy competing in the Olympic sport of recovery: learning how to breathe without wincing, how to laugh without clutching my belly, how to walk ten steps without feeling like I’d run a marathon. If there was a gold medal for managing to sneeze without crying, I would’ve earned it.
But here’s the strange part. In between the pain and the exhaustion, I discovered something I didn’t expect: peace. Not the loud, triumphant kind that comes after conquering something huge, but a fragile kind of peace. The kind that sits quietly beside the pain instead of replacing it. The kind that whispers, “you’re still here, and that’s enough for now.”
And maybe that’s the real gift. I used to think healing meant the pain was gone. Now I realize healing can also mean learning to carry pain without letting it crush you. Learning to laugh gently through the discomfort, to walk slowly but steadily, to ask for help without shame.
As Haruki Murakami once said, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” I carried pain, yes, but I also carried grace. And it was grace, not despair, that shaped the story of those cold, shaky first hours.
I’ve also been thinking a lot about stories. Maybe it’s the writer in me, or maybe it’s just how my brain makes sense of chaos. But I’ve realized that survival is not just about what happens in the operating room. It’s also about the story we choose to tell afterward. Do we tell ourselves we were victims of bad luck? Or do we tell ourselves we were given another chance, stitched back together so we could keep showing up for the people and the work we love?
I choose the second story. Because if I learned anything while lying in that hospital bed, it’s that life doesn’t owe us fireworks to remind us it’s worth living. Sometimes it reminds us through a whisper, a shiver, a blanket hastily tucked under our chin. I woke up cold. But I woke up. And that makes all the difference.
Here I am, still tender, still slow, still healing, but alive! And that’s a miracle worth telling.
Love,
Nuniek
Comments