“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” — Hebrews 11:1

Faith. Something I have struggled with throughout my entire life. We all have ups and downs. Through the low times, our ability to trust in the universe and to have faith we will be okay are tested. Somedays, it feels like I have no faith. Just fear. Others, it is all I am going on. Faith is my fuel. There are also days in between. When faith and fear come and go throughout. If we lose our ability to believe in the future, what do we do? What happens when we lose hope? For me, this is a fundamental question. Something I struggle with. I know having faith is necessary. I have to believe. But, this is not always easy. To steadfastly hold onto our hopes for the future. To be grateful for today. When we are surrounded by uncertainty and fear. It is one of the most difficult things I have faced. We have been tested again and again. We have fallen and picked ourselves up over and over. Sometimes it is my hand that reaches down. Sometimes it is his. Sometimes a loved one’s. A lot of the time we have had to pick up our own bodies from the ground and dust ourselves off only to be knocked down again. Our faith tested, as we struggle through.

Leading up to the surgery, I did not have a choice in the matter. I had to have faith. It was all I had. Our lives were in the hands of others. We had to trust they would make the right decisions and do the right things. We had to trust in their training and their expertise. The only thing we could do was breath and go with it. But really, is that not essentially life? Aren’t we all just breathing and trusting as time goes by? Isn’t our every moment based on faith and trust? If it is not, how do we get through the day without being terrified of the future?

---

The surgery was booked for 8:00 in the evening. Just 24 hours after the accident. It felt like time was somehow moving both quickly and slowly. At seven-thirty, they came to get him. I had watched the minutes ticking past. Wishing there was another option. I would have been nervous if it was routine surgery. It wasn’t routine. Nothing about that night was routine. It was spinal surgery. It was spinal surgery on a burst fracture. Scary words. Spinal surgery. Burst fracture. They still give me shivers. I walked behind his bed as they wheeled him toward the Operating Room. Walk slower, I wanted to say. I was so scared. I think of myself, walking along those hospital floors. It must have taken incredible courage to let them keep on moving towards those doors. I did not feel brave though. I was afraid. I felt powerless.

The Observation Room was a short distance from the Surgical Unit. Two large doors opened to reveal the place where my husband would leave me behind. It was a world I could not enter. I could not go with him. He would have to continue on his own. It was his journey. I could not protect him from it. In my gut, I knew he was strong. He was a fighter. He had already come this far. He was awake and lucid. He was not nervous. He was ready. The surgical doctor and his team walked up to the bed, surrounding it with their bodies. It was a big team. They exuded confidence. They were not worried. This was a normal day for them. This is what they do.

For us it was not a normal day. It felt like I had accidentally walked onto a movie set. It all was so unreal. It did not feel like us, but it was us. As I stood beside the head of his bed, the surgeon told us about the surgery and the risks. He talked mostly to Chris. I appreciated that. It was his life that would be in his hands. Eye contact. He leaned in. His team leaned in with him. Chris does not remember much of that day beyond vague memories. He does, however, remember this. For him, this exact moment could be a game-changer. It was a game-changer. It is one of the most important decisions he will ever make.

After explaining the surgery, the surgeon ended with this. The words that stuck in my head, as I waited for them to put Chris back together. I played it over and over. They went something like this, “I could leave you like this, and in three months your back would heal. We are not sure how it will heal though. It would likely heal incorrectly. We would likely end up having to do surgery after those three months of bed rest. If I do the surgery now the outcome will most likely be good. But, I could really hurt you. You could end up with permanent paralysis, with a colostomy bag, or loss of penile function. Do you still want to go ahead with the surgery?”

My heartbeat quickly as he spoke. We had been told by the nurses and the doctors he was one of the best neurosurgeons. They told us how lucky we were this surgeon would be doing the surgery. He was so professional and sure. His team stood behind him. My husband consented to the surgery without pause. The thought of three months on bed rest was out of the question for him. Especially with the risk of an operation down the road. There was no doubt in his mind. To me though, the surgeon was a stranger. A man who I had just met. A man I must put my trust in to keep my husband alive. To heal him. To not hurt him more.

In the few seconds that followed, his words ran through my head. “I could really hurt you…” I knew if I wanted to, I could say no. I could say wait. While Chris had given his consent, I knew I could protest. Apart of me wanted to. But, I know Chris. I knew if we had talked about a scenario like this before his accident, his choice would be the same. Faced with this, he would always say yes. For me, it was harder though. Would he forgive me if one of the worse case scenarios played out? I was scared, but I knew it was what he wanted. So I did not protest. Instead, I watched silently as they wheeled him away.