Johns Hopkins is world renowned and packed with groundbreaking resources. But at the end of the day, it is still a city hospital. Buildings stretch across multiple blocks, connected by bridges and corridors that cross over busy Baltimore streets. It feels like a labyrinth of medical care woven right into the fabric of the city.

It is also a place that holds a personal connection for me.

My Momma worked there for twenty-five years as a nurse, so the campus has always carried a deeper meaning in my mind. And while I live in Pennsylvania now, my Maryland roots will always feel like home. So this downtown behemoth of a hospital felt like exactly where I was meant to be on March 4th.

Somewhere between those city blocks and hospital corridors, I felt a quiet sense that I was being carried exactly where I needed to go that morning.

This next part of the story really unfolds in three pieces.

The nerves – quite literally, I suppose – but mostly the pre-surgery jitters and how I managed to wrangle them with a little help from my breathing exercises, stubborn optimism, and yes, a touch of Ativan.

The endless well of love I felt from my husband.

And finally, what it feels like to wake up on the other side and realize that my risk has gone from nearly fifty percent to two.

But first, the night before surgery.

The night before surgery I was surprisingly at peace. I washed with my antibacterial soap, had my hair braided, and did everything I could to prepare myself for the next day.

Just as I was settling in and beginning my now familiar ritual of flying through my favorite places in my mind, my Great Aunt called.

And she asked the dreaded question. “How are you?”

Anyone following along knows that question is the quickest path to waterworks for me. So I quickly redirected the conversation and told her to ask me about the weather instead.

Crisis averted.

But the call touched a very tender place in my heart that I sometimes keep tucked away. That place where my Momma and my grandmother still live. My Great Aunt is now the matriarch of our family – wise, warm, and endlessly loving to every branch of our family tree.

When she told me she was praying for me, it felt like a collective embrace. Her love wrapped together with the love of the women who raised me. Family is not just the tie that binds us. It is more like sunshine or the ocean. Constant. Steady. Its depth impossible to measure, but always there.

The morning came early.

We left the house at 4:00 am and arrived at Hopkins at 5:11. We checked in at 5:21.

Those numbers hold meaning for me. I see them often and have come to think of them as little winks from my Momma and my grandmother. I am not someone who leans into crystals or psychic readings, but when those numbers appear they feel like quiet reminders that the women who shaped me are still walking beside me. Coincidence or not, I will take it.

The drive into Baltimore was peaceful. Not a soul on the road. My husband and I leaned into my mantra of controlling what I could control. I controlled the music – as I’m a self-proclaimed amazing car DJ.

We played a happy, upbeat playlist and drove through the quiet streets while the city slowly woke up around us. My mood was calm. I was mentally there.

Well…mostly.

Pre-op is always an ordeal for me and because my arms were going to be compromised during surgery, the dreaded hand IV had to happen.

I do not like hand IVs. I really don’t like any IV’s – but ugh, the hand IVs are the worst of the worst!

They hurt more and once they are in place I act as though my hand has suffered a catastrophic injury. For the next few hours I became a temporary left-handed person.

There was also the matter of the surgical Sharpie.

Earlier I had joked that my surgeon probably would not need to mark anything because there were only two options and both were leaving the building.

I was wrong. Very wrong.

Not one surgeon marked me, but two. I didn’t look, but I know for certain it was a full treasure map situation – X marks the spot everywhere. I am fairly certain I was a colorful masterpiece by the time they wheeled me toward the operating room.

Well…almost wheeled. Because here is something I did not expect. I had to walk to the OR. I still do not understand that part. Why not a cozy stretcher ride like in the movies?

Instead there I was walking through the hallway with my kaleidoscope torso, my dramatically “injured” hand, and tears quietly streaming down my face after kissing my husband goodbye.

Then I walked into the room where I would spend the next seven hours asleep.

The nurse assigned to me had the most perfect Baltimore personality. Kind, compassionate, and just enough edge to keep things light.

She quickly informed me that I was not allowed to cry. Apparently the mood you fall asleep with under anesthesia can influence how you wake up. So I told her she better start making me laugh.

The room was full of women – nurses, techs, the anesthesiologist and her assistant, and my breast surgeon. “Looks like we have a party,” I said.  My nurse took her job seriously and proceeded to tell Dad jokes. They received mild chuckles as they were getting me situated on the operating room table.

Then something happened that took my breath away.

My surgeon reached over and held my hand.

The same woman who was about to spend hours removing a part of my body that had defined my womanhood for decades was standing beside me offering comfort.

In that moment she saw me. Not just as a patient or a surgical case, but as a human being who was scared and about to walk through something life-changing. That small squeeze of my hand meant everything.

Looking back now, I realize this entire journey has been marked by hands showing up exactly when I needed them. The lab tech who held my hand when the tears came. My husband holding my hand through every appointment. And now my surgeon holding my hand as the room prepared for surgery.

Then she asked if I wanted music.

The song that popped into my mind had been playing during our early morning drive and stuck with me. It is a song I have loved forever and one that always brings me joy.

Bob Marley – Three Little Birds. The chorus repeats the same simple promise: ‘Every little thing gonna be alright’.

And lying there on that operating table, surrounded by strangers who were about to change my life, it felt like exactly the message I needed to hear.

As the first notes began to play, they gently placed the breathing mask over my face.

And just like that, I started to fly.

In my mind I drifted straight to my favorite map dot in Jamaica – Seven Mile Beach at The Office of Nature, our favorite beachside dive bar.

Since we were clearly in reggae mode, I told the team I would like to request jerk chicken and a Red Stripe as my post-op meal. My own Dad joke landed (spoiler alert –  that is apparently not on the Johns Hopkins recovery menu).

The room faded. Bob Marley’s voice floated through the speakers. And the last thought I remember before drifting off was the quiet promise of that song repeating in my mind…‘Every little thing gonna be alright’. And with that thought, I let the music carry me into whatever came next.