I had a ganglion cyst removed from my right wrist on July 25th, 2025, at 7 AM. It was my first surgery besides my wisdom teeth removal back in April. I was excited and perhaps a bit nervous.

The first nurse who led me inside the facility was named Jules. She appeared to be in her sixties and demonstrated extreme graciousness, kindness, and compassion.

She greeted me attentively, “Hi Ellen, we’re ready to take you inside now.” She was one of those people who love their jobs and support their patients’ well-being. I admired her strength, wisdom, and courage. A nurse comforts, guides, and relieves the anxiety patients feel awaiting surgery.

She told me she worked in the Emergency Room for years at a hospital, where she often met people experiencing the worst day of their lives. To treat patients suffering from severe trauma requires insurmountable patience, dutifulness, and tact.

My cousin is a family medicine doctor who spent his residency working in the Emergency Room of a hospital as well. He once said to me, “Ellen, being a doctor is more than just memorizing facts. It’s about giving grace constantly, for the patient to recuperate. Your personality is not suited for it. You would blame yourself if your patient died. You can’t handle the responsibility of a stranger’s life. You would not cope well. It would destroy you.”

I changed into the blue dressing gown. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a hospital gown, yet I tied the three strings of the back with ease. Strange how muscle memory remembers what the mind has forgotten. I remember sonatas on the piano easier than I recall certain names.

Jules said, “Would you like some help tying the back of your gown?”

I replied, “No, I’m finished. Thank you.”

She glanced at the three butterfly knots I tied and smiled before saying, “Oh wow! Most people who come here don’t know how to tie the backs of their gowns. Usually, I tie it for them.”

She checked my heartbeat, blood pressure, and asked me to sign a waiver, legally claiming I was not pregnant. There was a line asking for the last date of my menstrual cycle. I scribbled July 25th.

Nurse Jules asked me a question, “Would you like me to grab your phone for you while you wait? It will be around 25 minutes before the surgery starts.”

She said, “Most young people have anxiety without their devices. I can grab your phone from your purse for you, if you would like to remain connected with the outside world.”

I responded, “No, I’m good with sitting quietly. I like the peace.”

Julie said, “Oh, you’re different. You’re one of those people who like being disconnected. Most people are addicted to their phones.”

I gave a weak laugh. If only she knew I was once a teenager addicted to my iPhone. I enjoy being away from my phone because I missed out on real life by constantly scrolling through photos of lavish lifestyles. The interaction showed me I had changed more in the past five years than I previously thought.

The anesthetic nurse asked me if I had any more questions. I gave her one-word answers, then we laughed at the same time out of nervousness. She was the only nurse in the team with concealer, foundation, and mascara applied perfectly at 6:30 AM. I could tell she loved her job. Her bright, radiant smile cheered me up, exuding a sense of pride. She expressed her excitement about my surgery being the first surgery of the day! I felt better afterward.

I met the anesthesiologist, the anesthetic nurse, and two more nurses before entering the Operating Room. My surgeon, Dr. W., checked in on me twice before the operation.

He said, “That’s bone,” when I told him I received narcotics after my wisdom teeth removal. My doctor knows I dislike tolerating physical pain. He saw how I grimaced when he lightly marked the cyst area with a purple fine-tipped Sharpie.

He gently asked, “Do you want 600 Motrin? I can write it. I don’t give narcotics for this type of surgery, Ellen. It will only hurt for a few days. You’ll be fine.”

I said, “No, it’s alright. I can woman up. I have regular ibuprofen at home.”

My anesthesiologist, Dr. L., asked me questions such as “Do you drink alcohol? Are you in school? Are you working this summer? Any history of substance abuse?”

He wished me luck on my new internship.

I noticed how my doctors and nurses were elated to do their jobs. They walked with a skip in their step. They chose to be here. They enjoy interacting with patients to create a positive outcome.

I felt a sudden pang of regret. Did I let my uncle down by not following in his footsteps? He used to say the teenage me had promising talent and the concise memorization of a surgeon.

“Of all the professions in the world, you could have excelled at, you chose fashion?”

My family did not understand my decisions, but my parents did.

As the two nurses pushed my bed into the giant, meticulous, stainless steel-covered Operating Room, I cracked a tiny joke: “All this for a little cyst?”

The surgical nurse chuckled as she said, “Yeah! Don’t you feel like a princess? All these people are here to help you!”

She passed my sentiments on to Dr. W., who then added, “No, it’s a big cyst. If we could shave it off at the office, we would. It needs to be removed surgically.”

I heard my surgical nurse say, “You’ll feel a little oxygen flow into your nose and fall asleep.”

I was drifting. It felt relaxing, similar to sitting in a sauna.

I had positioned my right arm to lie flat on the steel table. My right hand and wrist were disinfected and cleansed three times at this point.

I woke up to “It’s all done, Ellen! We’re dressing it right now,” said my surgical nurse.

“I wanted to see the stitches,” I whispered, turning to look at my right wrist.

“You can’t take off the dressing. It’s there to help you heal from the incision. Don’t get it wet at all. We’ll remove it on Wednesday morning in the office,” Dr. W. firmly prompted.

“Okay. I will be careful,” I answered. Gone was any trace of defiance. I once challenged authoritative figures; now I comply. It is better to be safe than sorry. I learned not to take risks without rewards.

I asked which kind of tape was plastered to my cloth bandage, before running my left pointer finger over it. My nurse said, “I think it’s silk.”

I wonder why people say “I think” before answering a question they know the answer to. Are we trained not to sound like know-it-alls? Is it off-putting to say ibuprofen instead of Motrin?

A different nurse asked me if I preferred cranberry or apple juice and graham crackers or saltines. I said, “I’d like cranberry juice, water, and graham crackers, thank you.”

I missed the adorable miniature sweet bears, shaped to be smile-inducing. They reminded me of my preschool days. I used to love the graham crackers I secretly ate since my parents rarely allowed me to have snacks.

The juice and water came in plastic cups with pebbles of ice. I miss pebble ice. Our refrigerator stopped making ice a year ago, and my father could not be bothered to fix the machine.

Five minutes passed before I completed my snack and drinks. In preparation for surgery, I did not have any consumables after 7 PM. I forgot my hunger while munching on my graham crackers. I held the dry ice pack as an arm sling to keep my wrist cold.

I was wheeled out of the facility into Baba’s car. The entire surgery went by quickly. I arrived at the surgery center by 5:45 AM, signed tens of forms, made my father a cup of coffee at the Keurig station in the waiting room, and walked into the treatment zone, with anticipation for the process.

My mother did not bother waking up at 5:40 to see us leave the house. She did not say goodbye. I don’t get offended at anything anymore. I have lived beyond my years.

My mother stopped trying a long time ago. She gave up on being the mediator and quit resolving crises. Life is hard. My mother’s optimism is an act for the outside world. She deflates the second she parks in our garage. She criticizes everything. Nothing makes her happy anymore.

My father gave up years ago. Anything sets him off. The only event capable of shaking my father was the possibility of losing his daughter. He did not lift a finger in our home for the first fifteen years of my life.

My mother was the man of the house. My mother doesn’t do housework, and my father does it halfheartedly, so the responsibility of caretaking fell to me. The armor dissipates eventually.

My mother’s parents made it known they disapproved of my father, rightfully so. However, my grandparents extended their animosity toward me, my entire childhood. I was a dilettante trying to entertain them with my multitude of varying talents and skills, perfected by my desire to be someone cool. I could never earn Grandmother’s love, respect, or compassion. Somewhere between thirteen and fifteen, I gave up on repairing a one-sided relationship.

I recovered physically, psychologically, and spiritually. I became irrevocably different.

This time, I would be calm, brave, and patient. I greeted everyone with a smile and politely answered their medically necessary questions. Nobody asked in regards to my love life or my salary, a wonderful contrast from other conversations.

My doctors encouraged me to pursue my dreams, to remain on track. They said school should be the most important thing in my life right now. I agreed wholeheartedly.

I do not view people as lesser than if they make less money. It is inscribed in my mind: “One cannot take it with him when he goes.”

I met insightful, incredible, intelligent, and passionate healthcare workers on July 25th. My wrist injury taught me life lessons. I keep getting wiser, stronger, and more educated. I am being lifted by helium. Thank God and Buddha, can I say that? I am of both religions. Both are part of me. Reconnecting with faith reduces the weight on my shoulders.

Ad meliora. Towards better things.

This is adulthood.