There are moments in life when a single word carries the weight of months—sometimes years—of stress. For us, that word was “approved.” After four long months of phone calls, appeals, resubmitted paperwork, second opinions, and more time on hold than I care to admit, the insurance company finally said "yes." Yes, they would cover his surgery. Yes, they would allow it at the out-of-network facility we knew was the right place. I didn’t cry right away. It was more like my whole body exhaled at once, a quiet, full-body surrender after being clenched tightly for far too long.
The days leading up to surgery felt surreal, like we had almost crossed an invisible finish line only to find another one waiting. There was relief, yes—but also fear, anticipation, and that strange calm that settles in when you know something big is coming towards you and there’s no turning back. The morning of the surgery, just two hours before the scheduled surgery check-in was to occur at a hospital almost an hour away from our home, we received the final phone call with a "yes."
From that moment on, we raced off to fight the morning rush-hour traffic. We were moving quickly, but oddly enough, everything felt as if we were moving in slow motion.
Hospital lights are always a little too bright, the air a little too cold. After hours waiting in the preoperative bay, I watched him get wheeled away, offering a smile that I hoped looked reassuring, holding back the tidal wave of what-ifs that tried to creep in. It’s a particular kind of helplessness, loving someone and having to hand them over to strangers in scrubs and trust that they’ll bring him back to me, fixed up. It was reminded of the children's nursey rhyme of Humpty Dumpty, but with a better ending. I could not bring myself to leave the area, and wandered around the unfamiliar city of Fremont for hours.
When the surgeon finally came out and called me with the words “everything went well,” it felt like a second, deeper exhale—the one I didn’t realize I was holding even tighter than the first. Relief washed in, but it was layered with exhaustion, gratitude, and a kind of emotional whiplash. After months of fighting, advocating, and pushing, suddenly there was nothing to fight. Those words were replaced with recovery, healing, and the quiet, steady work of putting one foot in front of the other again, literally and figuratively. I bought myself a hot chai at a beautifully decorated Indian cafe, walked back to my car and drove home to feed the cats their dinner.
And that’s where a different role began—the one no one really prepared me for. Caretaking isn’t glamorous. It’s medication schedules, watching for signs of pain, helping him sit up, adjusting the pillows under his legs, bringing ice packs every few hours, making sure he eats, sleeps, and heals. Caretaking was being strong while I was still tired myself, being patient when both of us were energetically stretched thin. But it’s also deeply human. There’s a closeness in these moments, a tenderness in the ordinary acts of care. Both of us slept at least 12 hours those first two nights at home from the hospital.
After everything it took to get there, showing up for him in this way didn’t feel like a burden—it felt like the quiet privilege of loving someone for decades, through the hardest parts and finally, finally, moving towards something better, together.
With love,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
The days leading up to surgery felt surreal, like we had almost crossed an invisible finish line only to find another one waiting. There was relief, yes—but also fear, anticipation, and that strange calm that settles in when you know something big is coming towards you and there’s no turning back. The morning of the surgery, just two hours before the scheduled surgery check-in was to occur at a hospital almost an hour away from our home, we received the final phone call with a "yes."
From that moment on, we raced off to fight the morning rush-hour traffic. We were moving quickly, but oddly enough, everything felt as if we were moving in slow motion.
Hospital lights are always a little too bright, the air a little too cold. After hours waiting in the preoperative bay, I watched him get wheeled away, offering a smile that I hoped looked reassuring, holding back the tidal wave of what-ifs that tried to creep in. It’s a particular kind of helplessness, loving someone and having to hand them over to strangers in scrubs and trust that they’ll bring him back to me, fixed up. It was reminded of the children's nursey rhyme of Humpty Dumpty, but with a better ending. I could not bring myself to leave the area, and wandered around the unfamiliar city of Fremont for hours.
When the surgeon finally came out and called me with the words “everything went well,” it felt like a second, deeper exhale—the one I didn’t realize I was holding even tighter than the first. Relief washed in, but it was layered with exhaustion, gratitude, and a kind of emotional whiplash. After months of fighting, advocating, and pushing, suddenly there was nothing to fight. Those words were replaced with recovery, healing, and the quiet, steady work of putting one foot in front of the other again, literally and figuratively. I bought myself a hot chai at a beautifully decorated Indian cafe, walked back to my car and drove home to feed the cats their dinner.
And that’s where a different role began—the one no one really prepared me for. Caretaking isn’t glamorous. It’s medication schedules, watching for signs of pain, helping him sit up, adjusting the pillows under his legs, bringing ice packs every few hours, making sure he eats, sleeps, and heals. Caretaking was being strong while I was still tired myself, being patient when both of us were energetically stretched thin. But it’s also deeply human. There’s a closeness in these moments, a tenderness in the ordinary acts of care. Both of us slept at least 12 hours those first two nights at home from the hospital.
After everything it took to get there, showing up for him in this way didn’t feel like a burden—it felt like the quiet privilege of loving someone for decades, through the hardest parts and finally, finally, moving towards something better, together.
With love,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
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