The Fellowship of Surgery

Those of us who don't have children know it - there is a not-so-secret Fraternity (oops, I guess it would be a Sorority) of 'Those Who've Given Birth' out there. It's that special, knowing glance between women when the topic comes up, or when someone else is pregnant for the first time. It's a club they've all been initiated into; and frankly, once something the size of a bowling ball has publicly passed through that tiny private space, they SHOULD be members of that club. It's a sorority I'll admire from afar, having not ever experienced a full-term pregnancy, and I'm content to observe it as a strong human bond without being a card-carrying member of the club.
Among the tightest of those 'bonds of common experience' is that of surgery. A friend and colleague had surgery this week for cancer, after some treatments. She's a beautiful, tough, Northern Wisconsin woman; and from the get-go I had no doubt that she would come through the experience all the more-so. The day of her surgery came and went with many of us drawing some sacred breaths of prayer for her as we went about our days. I noted, as I went to see her today in the hospital, that many of our colleagues who'd visited her had themselves had major surgeries. No coincidence, I'm sure.
As we chatted and laughed about the sacred and the profane, I thought about that transformative experience - of being put to sleep (think about that phrase when it's applied to a pet...), cut open, re-wired or re-configured, having something put inside or something taken out or altered in some way, and being stitched back together and woken up. It is bond. Like childbirth, it connects you to all others who have experienced that same phenomenon.
It's a little hard to wrap your head around. If you think about, probably MANY of the most bonding human experiences are a little hard to wrap your head around, a factor that makes them, well, makes them BONDING.
Catheter coming out today? Any places in your hand left to find a vein? Sit down, sister. Let's talk.