Minimally Invasive

But what if I don't wake up?

Since 2020, I’d been getting ultrasounds every six months to monitor cysts on my right ovary. The largest one just kept growing. By November 2024, surgery was officially on the table—to remove the cysts, or possibly the ovary itself. My doctor explained the weight of my ovary like a full balloon, heavy with a high chance of twisting. Which could be a cause for an emergency surgery. She also couldn’t say for sure if the cyst was benign. “Let’s just stop worrying about it and get it out.”

In theory, I could accept the idea of surgery. But once I had to confront the risks, I began spiraling. Blood clots. General anesthesia, what if I don’t wake up? Pre-op forms asking about family medical history I didn’t fully know. My dad died from a blood clots to his heart, after a coma from his car accident. My mom had varicose veins and surgery after giving birth to my sister. That was the extent of my “history.”

One of the bath tubs on the porch at the lake house

At the time, I was living at the lake house, feeling isolated. Recovering alone, without work for two weeks, it didn’t feel financially or emotionally possible. I was in debt and overwhelmed. After much contemplation, I decided to move in with my partner of a few months, hoping to relieve the financial burden and have someone to care for me with recovery.

I moved to Washington and applied for new health insurance. Around then, I also decided to have my copper IUD removed, which turned into its own ordeal since the strings were missing. It’s so fun having a uterus :) I went to Planned Parenthood, and they extracted it—thankfully—but not without extreme discomfort. While I was there, I asked the nurse practitioner to look at my ultrasounds. She glanced at it and said, “I’ve seen cysts way bigger than this. It could go away on its own. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

That was all I needed to hear! I wanted to ignore the whole thing. I wanted to believe my longtime OBGYN had been overly cautious. But a few months later, the anxiety crept back in. I finally saw a third provider—this time in Washington, with my new insurance. I was hoping she’d echo the same “don’t worry” sentiment.

Instead, she looked me in the eye and said, “I hate surgery. I avoid it whenever I can. But this—you need this.”

She explained that what had once looked like a simple cyst was now a dense “mass.” It wasn’t fluid filled, and masses don’t resolve themselves. They need to be biopsied. “These are the kinds of cysts we worry about,” she said.

Meanwhile, my relationship ended with my partner I was living with. I was trying to figure out housing—should I stay in Vancouver or move back to Portland? There were tax implications, and health care logistics. Then I checked my Oregon health insurance on a whim. Somehow, I still had full coverage through October and I could schedule the surgery much sooner with my original provider?? That sealed it. I moved back to Portland.

We scheduled surgery for March. I was in the throws of a breakup, and moving. Meanwhile, worst-case scenarios spun through my head: What if something happens to me? Who will care for my dogs?

I didn’t care about my truck or the things I’d worked so hard for. My only thought was that someone needed to love my dogs the way I do.

I debated whether to reach out to my ex ex, the one I trusted most with the dogs. The one I hadn’t spoken in almost two years. I eventually dmd him on insta (since I deleted his number hehe) and sent a message asking to get the dogs together. He seemed happy to hear from me, and to see the boys again—he has a chocolate Aussie they grew up with. The gang was getting back together.

The gang. Hudson, Howdy & Gravy. The three best friends that anyone could ever have

I didn’t tell him the real reason for reaching out at first. But eventually, I said, “Remember that cyst I’ve been watching since we were together?” I asked if something happened to me, would he take care of the dogs. He teared up. “I would move mountains for those dogs,” he said. “They’re my boys.” I felt a deep sense of peace.

He then offered to watch them while I recovered. We weren’t rebuilding a romantic relationship—but we were starting a new chapter as friends. I realized you can still love someone deeply, without having the same emotional attachment and resentment towards them. I’ve never been friends with an ex before, so this felt strange and new. This encounter showed me it was possible, considering he still felt like my best friend. It made me feel safe, supported and what I imagined family is supposed to feel like.

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As the surgery date approached, I began a nightly practice of guided meditations. I stopped taking all my supplements—including fish oil, because my doctors said it can thin your blood. I didn’t want anything to complicate things. I took every precaution. Still, my nervous system was a wreck.

Then, Mercury went retrograde. My doctor’s office called to say the surgery had to be rescheduled. Strangely, I didn’t spiral? I took it as a sign: the universe was working with me, not against me. My original caretaker Alexx could no longer help, so I reached out to my beloved friend Laurel. She lives up north and immediately said yes. Everything started falling into place again: the dogs were covered, I’d have someone to care for me, and the delay took away some of the fear and channeled it into annoyance. I was just ready for it to be over.

In the pre-op room, Laurel helped me into the gown and carried my IV bag as I shuffled to the bathroom. I apologized and laughed, with my butt exposed as I inched down the hall. “This is what I’m here for,” she said. For weeks prior I told her she could just drop me off, but when it came time, I realized I didn't want to be alone. I needed her.

I handed her my phone and gave her my phone passcode. I didn't explain why, but I think we both knew that if something happened, I wanted her to have access to all my contacts. I debated sending a voicenote to my best friend, something light but loving—I didn't want to show her I was scared or emotional about it. I thought if I leaned into it, that it would make my fears more real. I decided against it and said I would have Laurel text her when I was done.

They wheeled me into pre-anesthesia, and made me say goodbye to Laurel. They were playing popular piano covers in the background. I met the anesthesiologist and my surgeon came by. Lying in the bed, feeling helpless, I told her I was scared. She squeezed my hand and said, “You’re too young to lose an ovary. I’m going to do my best.” Then she asked if I wanted her to pray.

I said yes.

She leaned her head in on mine. I don’t remember what she said, but I felt a warm net of protection fall over me. A moment later, a piano cover of The Beatles’ In My Life started playing. I’ve never been a Beatles fan, but that song was played at my friend Sam’s memorial. He’d been in a coma after a diving accident— at the same hospital where my dad had been airlifted, who also fell into a deep coma. I felt their presence. I felt safe.

I was wheeled into a bright room filled with medical staff. I thanked them all for being there, and then I don’t remember a thing.

I woke up in a recovery room filled with other people coming out of anesthesia. A nurse was typing in my chart beside me. I asked her how it went. She smiled. “You did great. You got to kept your ovary. Your doctor will be in soon.”

Tears spilled down my face uncontrollably and I think I was laughing.

My doctor came in eventually. “It was a dermoid cyst,” she said. “Benign.” I sobbed. She hugged me. “We did find endometriosis though, and cauterized it.” She always thought I might have had endo, and the only way you can be sure, is actually by going in and seeing it. So that was confirmed, I did have it. It might come back, it might not. I am thankful that while I was diagnosed with endo, I don’t really have the same severe symptoms as some! But, I’m glad it was taken care of either way.

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Upstairs, Laurel was waiting for me. A nurse asked how I was feeling. “Happy” I said. She laughed. “That’s a first. I’ve never heard a patient say that?”

My heart rate spiked whenever I sat up in the hospital bed, which made my heart beat even faster. I couldn’t see clearly—the anti-nausea patch blurred my vision. I had three small incisions: one in my belly button, two on my lower abdomen and though on pain pills, I could feel that it happened. They wouldn’t let me leave until I peed and I was an anxious to get the hell out of there. Laurel handed me my phone and I sent loads of texts fulled by oxy and excitement. I was ready to go home.

I don’t remember much of the first few days after surgery. I had imagined I’d spend recovery reading or writing, maybe catching up on knitting projects. But mostly, I slept and chatted with Laurel. We sat on my porch in the sun, just like I’d pictured, talking about stupid boys and nothing in particular. I rewatched every season of GIRLS and the last two seasons of You. I ate mochi and crackers while Laurel handed me pain meds like clockwork every 4–6 hours, keeping track so I didn’t have to.

Through lightly mentioning this on social media, I started hearing from others who had gone through something similar, or were about to. I avoided looking on Reddit pre surgery—terrified of worstcase scenarios—but I did after.

“It’s the build-up that’s the worst part.” And that is the truth.

Eventually, I texted my ex and asked for my dogs back—a little earlier than I probably should have. I also sent Laurel on her way sooner than I should have. I insisted I was fine. I could walk. I could get myself water. I could manage.

What no one warned me about was the emotional crash that can come after anesthesia wears off. The depression. The anxiety. As soon as Laurel left to head north, it hit me—this deep, hollow loneliness. I suddenly felt incredibly sad. I still couldn’t do much. I couldn’t take my dogs for a walk, or go to the store, or clean. I just wanted someone to still be there, sitting next to me on the couch.

That might’ve been the hardest part of recovery—realizing I didn’t want to be alone. I felt sorry for myself in a way I wasn’t used to. I wanted someone to check on me, to make sure I was okay—even though I technically was? I wanted someone to say, Hey, you probably shouldn’t be picking that up. I wanted to be babied. Handled with care.

This was probably the first time in my adult life where I fully surrendered. Letting someone take care of me has never been easy—but in that emotional state, it was all I wanted. That kind of presence, that kind of gentleness—that’s what family is. That’s what real friendship looks like. That’s what love feels like.

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This might seem like a lot of emotion for a “routine” laparoscopic surgery. But I’m a Pisces—and more than that, it was never just about the cyst. It was about old trauma, the kind that lives in your body long after the moments have passed. It was about hospitals, the sterile smell and the memories they stirred. It was about losing my dad when I was eight, and my friend Sam in my twenties. I’ve witnessed two people I loved dearly in a coma, holding their hand by their bedside, knowing they were slipping away.

So when I thought about the possibility—however slim—that I might not wake up, it hit somewhere deep. I didn’t want to go too soon, not like my dad at 33 or Sam at 24. This surgery tapped into all of that grief and fear. It also opened a door I hadn’t expected: it brought my ex back into my life in a gentle, supportive way. It reminded me what it feels like to be truly cared for, to let my walls down, to be tended to like family.

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I felt embarrassment for how intense it all felt—but the fear was real. Now, I’m on the other side. I kept my ovary. The mass was benign.

In the end, I’m lucky. It was anticlimactic in the best way possible <3

One of my favorite photos I took of Sam, the summer before he passed <3 Love you forever, Samuel Satori Silverstein

Thank you to all who checked on me and wished me well. Thank you to my angels, Jason Bradley Nelander and Samuel Satori Silverstein. Thank you Laurel. Thank you Dante. Thank you Lani.

With Love,

Taylor