I was fine. I had my bag packed with crossword puzzles, two books, snacks, charging cords and my reading glasses. I had downloaded a movie from Netflix and I had several episodes of “A Million Little Things” to catch up on. I was wearing layers in case the waiting room was either too warm or too cool for my tastes and I had comfortable shoes on. My water bottle was full and I had my notebook along to record any information the doctor or nurses shared with us. I was more than fine, I was ready.

We had checked in to the surgical wing, waiting to be called back to pre-op. We were fine. We had already come through what everyone had told us would be the worst part; earlier a technician who specialized in “nuclear medicine” inserted poison into James’ ear through what would seem to be a rather innocuous procedure that turned out to be extraordinarily painful. We had watched as a gamma camera recorded 2D and 3D pictures of James’ ear, using the radioactive matter to highlight his “sentinel lymph node,” a critical step in highlighting to the surgeon which lymph node should be utilized as an indicator for any spread of malignant cells. The rest, we were assured, would feel like a breeze.

Pre-op went better than well. We continued to comment to each other how well suited all the people around us were to their jobs. Everyone was cheerful, upbeat and positive. We met the nurses, the anesthesiologist, his nurse and the surgeon whom we had only spoken with via virtual chat up until now. We joked about what I wanted whispered in James’ ear as he came out of anesthetic (a reminder of the sheep I somewhat jokingly asked for for my upcoming birthday). We were fine. We were ready.

But then they started to wheel him off to the operating room and as he left and the nurse reminded me how to get back to the waiting area, I was very suddenly and very surprisingly not fine. I was not ready. I felt completely overcome with worry and anxiety. I walked, void of awareness down the hallway but I did not turn towards the waiting area. I could not go and quietly sit down and just wait right now. I could not possibly be idle with all these emotions rushing through me. I needed purpose.

I walked instead, towards the in-house pharmacy, to get James’ prescription filled. I didn’t know what I would do after that, I only knew I had to be doing something and this was the only something I could come up with to do. The pharmacy had received the order but didn’t have it filled just yet, so I kept walking, not knowing where I was headed until I saw a sign that read, “Rogel Cancer Center” and I just couldn’t keep moving. I sat down and cried. I was a long way from fine.

Much of what I was feeling was a sense of helplessness as my husband was undergoing surgery for a sizable malignant melanoma inside of his ear canal. I was worried beyond words about whether it had spread, or what the doctor might find once he got into surgery. But what really struck me in that moment was all the times my mom and dad had gone through what we were feeling and experiencing.

I was only a self-centered pre-teen when my mom had extremely risky brain surgery. Her surgeon at Mayo Clinic was the only one who would take on such a procedure. As I sat in the U of M cancer center chair, I thought about my dad, doing much the same all those years ago. Only he had three young children at home, one just a toddler and her procedure was far riskier and with less assurances than James’. With tears streaming down my face, I texted Dad and asked how in the world did he get through it? “She was brave enough for the both of us,” came his reply moments later.

I have thought about all that Mom went through many times over the years. I have thought about Dad’s role and how stressful and difficult it must have been, but I have never been able to feel that struggle, to experience that worry until now.

The surgery took twice as long as the surgeon had thought and was more complicated than originally predicted, but we remain hopeful about the outcomes. I never did put my new reading glasses to use. I wasn’t able to concentrate on the movie I downloaded or the crosswords I printed out. The hours I sat waiting I spent thinking about Mom and her faith that made her courageous beyond measure. I thought about Dad and all the planning, preparing and waiting he had done over the years she battled her own cancer. I thought of us kids, so oblivious; we often times made things more difficult just because our youth made us so ignorant.

When they finally allowed me back to see James in recovery, I wiped my face, stood tall, took several deep breaths and then all but ran to where he was. And by the time I got to his room, I was fine. I was ready. I could be brave enough for the both of us.