The Recovery Room
The Kind of Work That Holds Everything Together
It’s been a wild month and a half.
You can feel like you have a real grasp on things—settle into a relatively predictable routine—and then be reminded that nothing is ever guaranteed to happen the way you expect. Of course, I’m talking about our Spring Break trip imploding before we could even leave Indiana. And of course, I’m talking about arriving for Will’s chest surgery a few weeks ago, only to be told that it had been canceled.
Each time, we came back home, brought in our bags, and lived out of them for a few days. It was like cognitive dissonance—believing that maybe, somehow, someway, someone might call and tell us to grab our bags because everything was back on. The calls never came, and eventually, we unpacked.
So we found ourselves in this strange period of stasis, putting life on hold until Will’s surgery was rescheduled. The good news is that there was a cancellation just three weeks after his original date. And this past Wednesday, we went to the same desk and held our collective breath—waiting, hoping that everything was still good to go.
And it was.
Will has a condition called pectus excavatum, which means his sternum and ribs sink inward, creating a dip in the center of his chest. According to their index, anything greater than 3.5 typically requires surgery. His number was 7.4, which meant his ribcage was significantly impacting his heart and lungs. The fix is to lift the sternum and place bars behind it. It sounds primitive. Drastic. But compared to how they did it thirty years ago, we felt incredibly fortunate.
The doctor showed us video footage from inside Will’s chest—before the procedure and after. All I can say is that I’m grateful for the level of expertise in the medical community. And I know this may sound strange, but if a beating heart could smile, that’s exactly what his heart was doing after they lifted his chest and gave it the room it deserved. The only moment that rivals it is watching my kids being born.
There were so many moments during our short stay at the hospital that I could write about. But one, in particular, has stayed with me.
We were in the recovery room with a drowsy, loopy Will. He could hardly keep his eyes open and was talking in fragments. As we spoke with the nurses caring for him, my wife told them how great they were—how great everyone at the hospital had been. One of the nurses responded, “Yes, but we are the only ones the patients never remember.”
That one line stopped us.
These post-op nurses show up every day, serving and caring for patients who will never remember them. Even now, Will can tell you about the doctors and nurses leading up to that moment—but he remembers nothing about the recovery room.
And yet, that’s where some of the most important care happens.
It made me wonder how much of the world is held together by people we never remember. Maybe the most meaningful work isn’t what’s seen or remembered—but what’s quietly given when no one is aware enough to say thank you.
Question
What does it look like to live a life that offers something meaningful—even if no one ever remembers you were the one who gave it?
Peace,
Brandon