I am scared.

It’s four days before my gallbladder surgery, and I am doing my best to mentally prepare for what’s ahead. I am someone who likes to be in control. I like being alert. I like knowing what’s happening and when. And the idea of being put under anesthesia, of handing my body over to strangers and trusting that I’ll wake up better, makes me deeply uneasy.

Also, I am really scared of needles.

Once, during a routine dental filling, I saw the numbing needle coming toward me and panicked. I instinctively closed my mouth and accidentally bit my dentist’s finger. I apologized profusely. He survived. But that should tell you everything you need to know about how my nervous system handles sharp objects.

For this surgery, there is no looking away. There will be an IV. There will be anesthesia. There will be surrender.

Everyone keeps telling me it’s a routine procedure, even ChatGPT, which I’ve consulted more than I care to admit these past few weeks.

And I know it is routine.

But I am a Scorpio. What am I if not thorough? Who would I be if I didn’t quietly imagine every possible outcome and sit with it for a moment?

There was a small part of me that considered cancelling.

But I can’t.

Living with Gallstones

For years, I’ve had this dull ache in my side after eating. I told myself I just had a “sensitive stomach” and didn’t think much more of it. I adjusted accordingly; I avoided anything too oily or too cruciferous, kept digestive enzymes and Gas-X within reach. I figured this was just how my body worked.

Last year, after mentioning it casually to my doctor, she paused. She thought it was odd that I had pain every time I ate and ordered an ultrasound.

Multiple gallstones.
Two very large ones.

Suddenly, all the strange episodes made sense, especially the worst one, while I was travelling last year. I was convinced I’d been accidentally fed gluten (because yes, I have a gluten allergy). Turns out it wasn’t gluten.

Note to self: stop self-diagnosing.

Gallbladder attacks are no joke. They are sharp, relentless and humbling. I would not wish that pain on anyone.

So here I am. Trying to be brave. Preparing to let go of an organ I never intended to part with, but clearly need to.

Do G’s Get to Go to Heaven?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about an old interview clip between the wonderful James Lipton and Sarah Jessica Parker.

He asks her, “If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?”

She responds, “Sarah Jessica, I would like you to meet Mr. James Broderick.”

That answer has stayed with me for years.

And in moments like this, when my mortality feels slightly less abstract, I find myself wondering if heaven does exist, and do people like me get to go? Am I deserving enough?

And then I remembered that song — Do G’s Get to Go to Heaven? A whole throwback. I’ll drop it below because now it’s stuck in my head.

But if God asked me the same question, I think I would want to hear:

“Nyevu, welcome. Your dad has been waiting for you.”

I picture him just as he was. Steady and calm, that quiet presence that always made me feel anchored.

Even typing that makes my chest tighten.

The chances of anything going wrong with this surgery are slim. I know that. But none of us truly knows when our time will come.

Talking About Death in My Culture

In my culture, talking about death can feel taboo, as if saying the words makes it more likely to arrive.

I’ve never quite subscribed to that.

There’s something deeply loving about preparation. A little like Swedish Death Cleaning — gently putting things in order so no one else has to. It’s a quiet way of saying: if something happens, here is what I want. Here is what matters to me.

Not because I expect the worst, but because clarity is kindness.

Updating My Advance Care Plan

Which is why, alongside mentally preparing for surgery, I’ve also been updating my Advance Care Plan (ACP).

I first drafted one in April 2020, when COVID hit, while working in the hospital system in BC. There was a heaviness in the air, and it felt wise to put something in writing. My family was shocked when I shared it. Eventually, they understood.

A lot has changed in four years.

So I revised it.

I used a template from Five Wishes, which is excellent, and then I personalized it. I’ve included things like:

• A list of whom I want to make health care decisions for me when I can’t make them for myself; I ranked them from first to last.
• Explained the kind of medical treatment I want or don’t want, including being an organ donor and wanting to be resuscitated unless I’m brain dead.
• How comfortable I wish to be.
• How I want people to treat me, including visits and the music I want to be played, and that I don’t mind being visited by clergy. Send them all — the priest, the rabbi, and the imam. Cover all the bases.

• What I want to happen to my body if I pass away, and where I want my ashes scattered.
• Who inherits my most precious teddy bears, Squishy and Coco.
• How to access all my financial accounts online.
• My credit card points and how to use them before closing the accounts – I earned those, y’all.
• How to access my social media accounts.
• How my rent and utilities are paid, and how to notify the landlord.
• Where I work, who to contact, and who gets to tell my team.
• List of subscriptions I currently have and how to cancel them.
• All my identification – IDs, passports, birth certificate.

Is it a lot?

Yes.

Is it slightly intense?

Also yes.

But having it organized brings me peace. As a self-confessed control freak, it comforts me to know that if the worst were to happen, my partner and family would not be scrambling. They would have something to reference. They would know what to do.

And that feels like love.

Learning to Let Go of Control

That is the extent of my control.

The rest is surrender.

Am I ready to part with my gallbladder?

Not really.

Am I pushing through anyway?

Yes.

If you’re reading this, I’ll gladly accept your good thoughts and prayers. I’m holding both fear and courage at the same time. And here’s a photo of the only gallbladder I’ll have after surgery. I’m calling him Gully. My lovely friend Jill sent him, and he’s already been surprisingly comforting.