Almost two weeks ago now, I had surgery to correct something called a Hernia of Morgagni.
It’s a rare condition, rare enough that my thoracic surgeon– who has been around– declared it “fascinating!!” In fact, it was so impressive and strange that he asked if he could show my x-rays while giving a lecture at the university, a testament to my singularity that I found simultaneously flattering and demoralizing.
I had a tear in my diaphragm that was roughly the size of a grapefruit. It was through this hole that my intestines had migrated, snaking up from my abdomen and into my chest cavity. Here, as nature abhors a vacuum, my intestinal tract took up residence in the space that was once inhabited by my left lung, which had been surgically removed about a dozen years ago to facilitate treatment for Hodgkin’s Disease.
It was a mess, and the condition caused me all sorts of problems including digestive issues, pain and difficulty in breathing, as my internal organs were now pressing against my heart and one lung, instead of living comfortably in the abdominal basement.
The surgery was fussy and kind of delicate, but not overly dangerous. Very gently, my surgical team tugged, coaxed and persuaded the intestines back through the diaphragmatic rip, and then sewed up the tear and reinforced it with some sort of mesh screen so that hopefully, this never happens again. This took about four hours and proceeded without event.
I was lucky. There was a fair amount that could have gone wrong, both in surgery and in the aftermath, but there were no problems. The surgery worked, and in due course I’m going to take my rightful place on the world stage and become the champion of So You Think You Can Dance and win both showcases on The Price is Right.
At any rate, I had all sorts of well-articulated anxieties about this surgery, almost all of which had to be burdened by my family and Rachelle, who took them on with patience, love and a keenly felt optimism that was nothing short of a miracle. But still, whenever I closed my eyes and thought about my Hernia of Morgagni, (so mysterious and exotic! Named after a 17th century Italian pathologist and anatomist!) I saw a man in a tall, black hat twirling his mustache.
I really don’t know whether my fears were rational or not, and I’m not sure if it matters. We all have a man in a tall, black hat twirling his mustache in our imagination. The villain might be a physical illness, a broken relationship that won’t shake free of the heart, or a fear of simply not being present when most needed. It could be anything.
I want to express my profound gratitude and thanks to everybody who helped see me through this, and offer to you the hope that I can one day pour this love and compassion back into you.
And now, I would like to leave you with some words from Plato, words that serve as a lovely guide into each one of our days, “Be kind, for everybody you meet is fighting a hard battle.”