Surgery

It was 4 a.m. on November 27th, 2024. I kissed my wife goodbye as she slept, then climbed into the car waiting outside. We drove to Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto, California.

The ward felt like an episode of Grey’s Anatomy; surreal, almost fictional. My nurse, an older gentleman, stayed with me during the prep.
“OK, it’s almost time. We’ll wait for your loved ones to come back,” he said softly.
“Oh, it’s just me. My wife’s fast asleep in bed.”
He looked stunned. I smiled. My dark British humor finding its moment.

One of my doctors arrived to check in. Logic kicked in as panic started to build. I asked so many ‘what if’ questions I lost count. “Listen, Kieran,” he said. “If you don’t want to go through with this, it’s okay, we can cancel the surgery.”

I told the universe to go screw itself. I would win today.

The anesthesiologist came in to prepare me for what was next. I felt calm, at peace with the unknown future I was about to enter. Permanently.

That day marked a farewell to my old self. I suppose I could compare it to being reborn. A physical part of me was to be taken away, and I couldn’t help but wonder what might take its place.

In the early hours of the morning, they wheeled me into the operating theatre — a special one.

Goodbye, old me. But this wasn’t the end.

My wife had been waiting at home. Seven hours in surgery continued. Eight hours. Nine hours. She got in the car and drove up to Palo Alto.

As she arrived, I was being wheeled out of surgery. It had been ten hours.

My doctor, a brilliant neurosurgeon and a genuinely kind man, met with us afterward. “Everything went great. How are you feeling?” he asked. I had, as you might expect, an unimaginable headache.

The next thing I remember was my wife helping feed me as my brain struggled to make sense of anything. Sleep welcomed me.

It was 2:30 a.m. on Thanksgiving Day. I had just awoken, but this time, a part of my brain, a part of me, was gone.

My mother kept declining my calls. I called her again. And again. “Are you accidentally calling me?” she messaged. “Pick up the phone!” I replied.

I had lied to my family. I told them I didn’t know when the surgery would happen. Maybe it was trauma. Maybe I just didn’t want my caring mother messaging me every five minutes to check that I was doing okay.

She was furious. And relieved. What a combination.

The solitude gave me time to reflect on what had just happened. Compared to my previous surgeries, this one was… a breeze. And yet I knew unquestionably there would be side effects. My meditative focus was desperately trying to figure out what was wrong. Surprisingly, I still felt like me.

With my usual British humor, I stared at items in the room to see if the surgery had unlocked a superpower. “TV, turn on!” What a shame. It didn’t.

Everything was peacefully slow-paced. No frantic check-ins from nurses, just casual banter and dry humor to soften the atmosphere while they made sure everything was in order.

That afternoon, I was free to leave.

I took no pictures that day except one: walking out of the hospital. That short walk with my wife to the car was momentous, a testament to modern science, caring people, and a new future.

And a new future I would embark upon…