There’s something about the sterile white walls, the steady beeping of machines, and the soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes that marks time differently in a hospital. I never imagined I’d become so familiar with those sounds—or that I’d end up having three surgeries during one hospital stay. But life doesn’t always give warnings. It just hands you the next chapter and waits for you to survive it.
It started with what I thought was a minor issue—pain in my abdomen that wouldn’t go away. I put off going in, like many do. When I finally did, thinking maybe it was appendicitis, the doctors quickly discovered it was something more complicated: a bowel obstruction that had already begun to cause serious damage. Emergency surgery was the only option.
Surgery One: The Wake-Up Call
The first surgery was a blur. One moment I was signing forms, the next I was waking up in recovery, groggy and disoriented. The pain was sharp but controlled, the nurses were kind but hurried. I realized quickly that healing wouldn’t be as simple as rest and medication. There were tubes, wires, and the gnawing anxiety of what came next. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t walk, and I was far from feeling like myself.
Surgery Two: The Setback
Just when I thought I was turning a corner, I spiked a fever. Scans showed an infection had developed near the surgical site. I was rolled back into the operating room. This second procedure was necessary but demoralizing. I remember lying in the hospital bed afterward, staring at the ceiling tiles, wondering how much more my body—and mind—could take.
Hospitals have a way of shrinking the world down to the essentials: water, breath, movement, hope. I found strength in small victories—sitting up, walking five steps, keeping down a sip of broth. Nurses became friends. The night shift staff became quiet companions, adjusting machines and blankets while the rest of the world slept.
Surgery Three: The Turning Point
The third and final surgery wasn’t part of the original plan, but it was the one that finally put me on the path to recovery. It repaired lingering internal issues and cleared the infection for good. This time, I woke up with a cautious sense of hope. My body felt lighter, cleaner, like it was finally starting to heal instead of fight.
Recovery was long. I spent weeks in that hospital room, learning how to walk again without pain, how to eat without nausea, how to trust my body. There were bad days full of setbacks and frustration, but also good ones filled with progress and encouragement.
What I Learned in the Halls of Healing
Three surgeries in one stay taught me more than any textbook ever could. I learned patience. I learned gratitude for nurses who listened, for surgeons who didn’t give up, for friends who called even when I didn’t answer. I learned humility, too, in having to ask for help with things most people take for granted—using the bathroom, getting out of bed, brushing my hair.
But most of all, I learned that healing is rarely a straight line. It’s messy, painful, and deeply personal. Every scar I carry now is a reminder not just of what I went through, but of what I overcame.
To anyone reading this who may be facing surgery, illness, or just a long stretch of recovery: take it one hour at a time. Healing doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes it just looks like surviving the day.
And that’s enough.
Michael J McCluskey 