The Rhythm of Healing

The Rhythm of Healing

The early morning light seems different that day. Not just the quality of pre-dawn glowing filtering through the hospital blinds, but something deeper—a light that seems to understand something you are just beginning to comprehend about life, breathing, and survival.  Scared but resigned to the inevitable. 

You remember the surgical prep like a strange, disconnected dream. The busy nurses with their gentle voices, the anesthesiologist's calm reassurance, your wife's hand—trembling slightly—holding yours. Your adult children quietly chat about nothing in particular.  Nobody has told you how surreal it feels to be fully aware that your heart is about to be stopped, examined, repaired, and then carefully restarted.

Modern medicine is a kind of magic most people never truly appreciate until they lie vulnerable on a cart being wheeled toward an operating table. Your surgeon isn't just a doctor—he's an artist, a technician, a miracle worker who can map the intricate landscape of your heart with a precision that feels nearly impossible.

Recovery so far isn't a straight line. It's a meandering path full of unexpected turns. Some mornings, walking from the bedroom to the kitchen feels like climbing Everest. On other days, taking a full, deep breath is your greatest achievement. You learn to celebrate the smallest victories—a step without pain, a moment of genuine laughter that doesn't make your chest ache.

Friends and family call or visit, their eyes a mixture of concern and hope. They bring stories from the outside world—a world that suddenly seems both incredibly vast and remarkably small. You discover that near-death experiences don't change you dramatically all at once. They seep into your consciousness like watercolor, gradually transforming how you see everything.

Nights are the hardest. In the rare moments when the hospital is quiet and your thoughts are loud, you trace the surgical scar on your chest. A roadmap of survival, of medical intervention, of your own unexpected resilience. Each inch tells a story of something greater than yourself—a complex dance between human vulnerability and extraordinary medical possibility.

You begin to understand that healing isn't just about recovering physical strength. It's about rebuilding trust—trust in your body, in medical science, in the mysterious process of living. Some mornings, you feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Not the performative kind, but a deep, cellular appreciation for simply being alive.

Your doctors and nurses smile, saying you are healing "beautifully." But beauty, you realize, isn't always about perfection. Sometimes it's about surviving, about showing up, about being willing to start again—even when starting again means something as simple as walking to the den or laughing without holding your chest. You have a renewed sense of appreciation for the people you love and for the important role they play in your very soul. 

I guess that life isn't about avoiding fragile moments. We aren't designed that way. It's about embracing them, understanding that your vulnerability is not a weakness, but your most profound strength.

So for now, it's one heartbeat at a time. Forward. Always forward.

Much love!  ~wcd