48 hours.
The title of a popular TV show. Or the amount of time you’re down with a flu bug.
This time…it’s a countdown.
Monday is coming.
When the surgery was first scheduled, it felt far away—just over three weeks. I wanted it sooner. I wanted it over.
And now?
I’d honestly like to pause time for a minute.
Because I’m not sure I’m ready.
But then again…are you ever?
In true “me” fashion, I’ve prepared the only way I know how.
I’ve bought all the things—wedge pillow, drain holders (still not thrilled about those), soft pajamas I fully intend to live in, and button-down shirts for when I graduate out of the pajama phase.
Function over fashion…for now.
I’ve handled the house, too. Laundry done. Dogs bathed. Groceries stocked. Bills paid. A full calendar mapped out for who’s doing what while I’m recovering.
The project manager in me is alive and well.
There’s comfort in that.
In feeling like something is organized…even if everything else feels a little uncertain.
The night before surgery, Peppermint and Dasher will be on the couch with Garrin.
Not because they want to be.
Because we are being extra cautious.
We’re keeping the bed clean while I have drains, which means at least two weeks without our usual little pack tucked in at night.
They’ll be fine.
Garrin will be fine.
I’m the one who’s going to miss it.
That quiet, cozy, everyone’s exactly where they should be feeling.
But like everything right now—I remind myself:
This is temporary.
Even the big things.
Yes, I’m losing a part of my body. And yes, that’s not nothing.
But reconstruction is ahead.
This version of “right now” isn’t forever.
Temporary has become a very important word in my vocabulary.
Monday night, I’ll be staying in the hospital.
Which, for someone who already doesn’t love doctor visits, feels like…a lot.
I’ve never stayed overnight before.
So no, I’m not exactly excited about that part.
But again—temporary.
Also worth noting…Monday is Garrin’s birthday.
Because of course it is.
When I pointed that out—slightly apologetic, because this is not exactly the birthday plan anyone would choose—he didn’t hesitate.
“This is more important.”
Just like that.
I married a really good man.
He also casually mentioned, “No one messes with my family on my birthday,” which I’m choosing to interpret as excellent timing and a little extra protection heading into surgery.
We’re calling that a win.
In the middle of all of this, people have been showing up in ways I didn’t fully expect.
Meals being planned. Visits being scheduled. My mother-in-law coming to help. My step-mother-in-law stepping in later when Garrin has to be away.
I am not doing this alone.
And then there are the little things—the ones that somehow feel just as big.
Beautiful flowers and extra phone calls from my best friend.
Soup from my pen pal.
A horseshoe necklace for luck.
A handmade keychain that says “fighter” from my sister.
Knitted knockers from my aunt, delivered with a visit that meant more than she probably knows.
Baskets of thoughtful, comforting things.
And from my new connection—words.
Simple, meaningful encouragement. For the surgery. For the writing. For letting myself actually feel all of this.
Those words stuck with me.
My dad, stepmom, and sister will be here soon too—for my mom’s service. Something to hold onto. Something to look forward to, even in the middle of everything else.
I also made a playlist for the hospital.
It’s called “I Need to Feel Good.”
Very on the nose.
Friends and family added songs, and now it’s filled with pieces of them—memories, moments, reminders that I’m surrounded, even when I’m physically alone.
My tribe is showing up.
In every way that matters.
And I feel it.
Tonight, Garrin and I are going out to celebrate his birthday—just the two of us.
Tomorrow, cake with family.
And then…we shift.
Final prep. Fresh sheets. Antibacterial soap. Packing my bag.
Trying to sleep.
Trying not to overthink.
Trying to sit somewhere between fear and readiness.
I may not feel fully ready.
But I’m going anyway.
Because fear doesn’t get to make this decision for me.
After all…I am a fighter.
And I’ve been holding onto one thing through all of this:
Hope is stronger than fear.
48 hours.
I’m coming.
