How to stay inspired while recovering from surgery

I wondered where I would go when I was put under, in the endless darkness of general anesthesia.

I had very little time to prepare for my turn in the void. My two surgeries were something I had been waiting on for years, planning in my head how it would feel to walk over the threshold of sliding hospital doors, but I felt entirely unprepared when a call came in midway through a Thursday afternoon offering a spot for surgery only a week away. I ran through every little scenario in my head of how to strengthen my body to prepare for the procedure and what I would do to keep my soul intact in the days after — books I would read, Netflix shows I could binge, albums I could finally listen to. The full recovery for my procedures takes a year, so I was looking at a long road in need of many comforts.

I had grand visions of what my creature comforts would be. I planned to rewatch Gilmore Girls from start to finish, mini-series and all. It felt harmless and comforting, like an old cardigan you don't remember buying — it's just always been there, soft and shapeless and soothing. I made a playlist of songs to listen to in the aftermath, meticulously placing track after track into a two-hour structure designed around comfort in Apple Music. I titled it Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End, after the line from Semisonic's "Closing Time." It's a silly song that recalls a simpler time — when I worked in a grocery store and my needs were simple and manageable — and it always makes me think of the ease of tying up loose ends and going home to rest. 

The morning of the procedure, I played "Now It's On" by California indie pop band Grandaddy as we left the parking lot of the Holiday Inn. For nearly 20 years it's been the first song I listen to on my birthday, and that cold morning in late October felt a little like a birthday of sorts. Once I went into the darkness, I would emerge brand new on the other side.

When I woke out of surgery, I was wheeled frantically into the room I shared with one other patient and carefully but hurriedly taken from the gurney to the comfort of my bed, reacting harshly to the anesthesia and getting sick over and over. Slowly, though, my body slowed itself, adjusting to the new normal. The first morning after surgery, I put in my AirPods early in the quiet of my room — long before my bunkmate woke up — and put my playlist on.

Here I was in a bed, vulnerable and alone, and I needed something to wash over me and calm my nerves. I so desperately wanted to get out of bed and move my feet now, so much more than I ever expected. The first song I listened to was my fiancée's band, By Divine Right. COVID rules prevented families from spending the night in our rooms, and I found myself needing more comfort than I imagined. I put on their song "No One Can Fix Me" so I could be reminded of her when she wasn't in the room. 

I thought I would relish the time away from the world and my responsibilities within it, being able to focus on nothing but healing and tranquillity — but being prone for so long made me a little bananas. I found little comfort in all the things I had prepared for myself. The books I brought seemed uninteresting; Gilmore Girls gave me nothing. I got bored of my own playlist so fast, despite the hours spent putting it together.

But after a few days, we moved from hospital to convalescent home, where I was told it was important to move our feet a little more every day. I put my AirPods in and went walking, suddenly finding new rhythms as my playlist shifted from sad songs to upbeat numbers. I listened to long podcasts, like my friend Yasi Salek's show Bandsplain, for the stretches of time where I had to take care of my surgical sites or rest from my brief walks. They kept my brain moving and engaged, like I wasn't missing the conversations of the world outside. And I found myself enraptured by watching M*A*S*H on Disney+, a soothing balm for the moments when I had to lie down and slow everything to a crawl.

Out of nowhere, I found comfort in all of these things, washing away my memories of the darkness and filling my days with light. I couldn't move much — usually one lap of the home and then I had to lie down again — but I looked forward to both. There was always something in there, a song, a conversation or a joke on a show, that added colour to my day, something I could mark down as being a cherished memory of the time. The comfort I had planned didn't arrive as I imagined, but it was there to support me all the same when I needed it most.

While I'm still healing, I've learned a few things that have helped as I slowly recover:

1. Listen to your body and mind.

An unexpected aspect of recovery was how much I could not accurately plan for — how much I had to learn about listening to the needs of my mind and my body instead. All the things I told myself I would do in my recovery mattered less than what I end up finding in those moments of joy.

2. You can't plan your future joy.

Another hard lesson learned is that you can't plan your future joy — you can only accept it when it crosses your path. I had to learn to be fluid and amenable, to accept the unconventional peace I found in unlikely places.

3. Let your guard down.

I surprise myself with how much I enjoyed things I might otherwise not make time for, like watching house-flipping shows on HGTV or reading long articles about Shackleton's expeditions at sea. The less precious I am about the things that help me get through the day, the easier it is to get through them. There is no perfect art, just the things that help us feel our emotions in the right moments.

4. Draw an imperfect picture.

Some days are hard; you may struggle to get through even with the best of intentions. At the end of each day, before I tried to drift away to sleep, I would journal about what I did that day: where I walked and what I listened to. Some days, I couldn't enjoy something that had brought so much joy to the day previous. I had to just take every day as it came and not expect every one of them to be perfect.

5. Enjoy it while you can; don't force it when you can't.

Some days nothing works. Recovery is hard work! It's a lot to be kind to yourself in the moments when nothing is helping and everything feels off. There are days where there's no perfect song or TV show or book to help. Sometimes you have to turn it all off and sit with yourself and listen to what you need. The goal is to make the difficult moments shorter and shorter. Only by recognizing when things are hard will we notice how far we've come.