• Part I: The Night of the Attack
• Part II: The Day After
• Part III: Taking Care of Business
• Part IV: Falling Apart
• Part V: Shifting Perspectives

I simultaneously looked forward to the surgery and dreaded the day. As the day approached, I still didn’t know who would operate on my hand — the friendly young surgeon or the mysterious Dr. Bergman, who specialized in hand surgeries and had decades of experience, but whom I had not met. Dr. Grumpy was out of the picture completely, and I was happy about that. 

The night before the surgery I had to wipe my entire body with a special antiseptic cloth and couldn’t eat after 9:00 pm, couldn’t drink anything, even water, after midnight. I had asked my friend Mariposa (one of the girls who was with me at the talk in San Francisco on the night of the attack) if she could pick me up after the surgery. She was flying back from New York the night before and was happy to help. The night the three of us were at the talk, Mariposa had to leave earlier to catch a flight to New York. As she was flying over the country I was getting robbed in Oakland. 

My best friend’s mom called from Florida to make sure I was up on time. She lit a special candle from Georgia and said prayers for me that morning. By the time I got her call, I was ready to leave home. 

Grand Avenue was still dark at 5:45 am on November 9th, when I got in a Lyft car. I felt grateful for the fresh, crisp morning air and rare silence on the street. The driver, a twenty-something guy, said good morning at the beginning of the ride and wished me good luck when he dropped me off at the Highland Hospital. Maybe he noticed my mood and gave me space, or maybe he himself was wrapped in the haze of early morning hours. He helped set the day right, and I needed every bit of the universe’s cooperation that day. 

I was heading into surgery with a lot of unknowns and childhood memories of my burn surgery fueling fears and general unease with hospitals. Considering that my only visit to the orthopedic department ten days earlier didn’t go well, it was hard for me to trust everything would go well. 

Since there was no traffic, we arrived at the hospital earlier and I quickly went up to the fifth floor. There were three other patients, adult men, in a small square waiting room with chairs lined up in three rows. The receptionist was a cheery young woman with full makeup on and glittering long fingernails. Her appearance didn’t match the quiet, dim room with solemn air, but was a welcome distraction for me. Two patients had a family member with them. An older African American man, James, and I were alone. My surgery was delayed by an hour due to a weekly staff meeting.

“What happened to your hand?” said James, who was sitting alone in the second row, a couple of seats away from me. This was James’s third surgery, he knew all the nurses’ names and they knew his. He had colon cancer. 

“A few teenagers jumped me by the Lake Merritt and broke my finger. I’m getting it pinned today. Hopefully,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You gotta watch out,” said James. He spoke slowly and quietly, matching the mood in the room. James told me that since he quit working, he went for afternoon walks around the Lake. He used to work for many years at a distribution center for a big beverage company, but due to his health, had to quit. 

“They say I’m better off staying unemployed on disability… I don’t like it.” A few seconds later, as he stared at the chair in front of him, he almost whispered to himself, “I don’t like it. I like to work… It gives me something to do.” 

If James earned just enough to keep food on the table, he wouldn’t be eligible for government health care and would have to cover his medical costs out of pocket. It didn’t make any sense to him or to me.

James kept talking. He told me how he learned to cook after his wife divorced him. He made the same dinner every day, something simple, but it brought him a lot of joy. He spoke about Thanksgiving and how his grandmother used to prepare a big meal, gathering the entire family. As he spoke, I thought about all other lonely people who live on the edge of the society, for whatever reason — poverty, family circumstances, race, old age, illness. 

We are all only one step away from being isolated from everyone and everything we find familiar and comforting in the world. You can have a job, a house, a family, good health, friends — and one day, you lose one of these things and everything else starts to crumble. 

James was afraid. So was I. It felt necessary, even important, to feel human in that waiting room. That way we got to keep our dignity as we went into the hands of surgeons and nurses, without any say or control of what would happen to our bodies. They called James in. I wished him good luck, he wished me the same. 

A few minutes later a middle-aged female nurse with a round face and no make-up came out from the pre-op room to take me inside. Her gentle smile softened her round features. Her voice was soothed me. I felt a little less scared.  

Sun-young, the nurse, was of Korean descent. She led me to my bed and showed things in the brightly-lit room with four beds arranged in a row and curtains around them.

“I could tell you’re from Europe because of your clothes. I was just in France for a vacation with my family. People dress so fashionably there,” said Sun-young. 

I looked at my dark purple plain cotton shirt and jeans and wondered where she saw my sense of fashion. Sun-young pointed to my embellished red leather belt. We both smiled. It was a gift from my mom, who loved to send me packages with shoes, scarves, belts, and fun jewelry. She probably didn’t realize or even mean to, but at that moment Sun-young made me feel seen and normal — I wasn’t just a patient in need of care, I was a woman with a style, and my origin mattered. 

She pulled the curtains around my bed to give me privacy and helped me take off my shirt. With Sun-young’s help I put on a hospital gown, a cap over my hair, and a pair of soft hospital socks with nonslip soles. She heated the bed for me and put a pillow behind my back and one under my right arm, making me feel comfortable for the first time in a long while. 

I felt light — physically and emotionally. I was in the right place at the right time, being taken care of by the right people. I felt deeply peaceful from knowing that I had done everything that depended on me and now had to let others take over. 

Sun-young didn’t assure me that my surgery would go well or tell me anything that would make me believe that. But her care and kindness were beginning to restore my trust. 

Dr. Bergman came in. And — he’s Dr. Hollywood! He once again reminded me of my cheerful music school director. At that moment, I decided that everything would turn out well. 

“Good morning, Ms. K. How are you feeling today?” he asked in his low baritone, while standing by the side of my bed.

“Have been better, but glad to see you,” I said. We both smiled.

“Do you have any questions for me? I don’t know what I can tell you that others haven’t told you already, but…” 

“I’d like to hear it from you,” I said before he could finish his sentence.

“All right,” he smiled and proceeded to tell me that they would either put a couple of temporary pins to align and hold the phalanges until the fracture healed. Or, they would put a permanent hardware to hold the bones together.

“When and how are you going to decide?”

“I’ll decide once you’re asleep, nice and cozy,” he said smiling, with the confidence and polish of someone who’s done this many times before. 

I felt like I was finally in good hands and could really let go — let go of my fear, let go of control. I could trust. 

Warm and comfortable in the hospital bed, I was beginning to feel healed and fell asleep. 

The anesthesiologist had to wake me up to put me to sleep. He was a kind Indian man, who checked my teeth and went over routine questions. Flashbacks from the burn center began to rotate in my head. I remembered the old Russian female anesthesiologist, who defined her entire life with the tragic loss of one of her daughters, an eight year-old who died of a panic attack while stuck in an elevator. I saw the Georgian nurse with dark almond-shaped eyes, holding my hands, smiling and trying to cheer me up, as they dressed my wounds. I saw my mom sitting on a hospital bed in front of me, wishing she could take my pain away. I remembered being wheeled into the dim shaky elevator to the top floor of the burn center for the skin graft surgery. I remembered drifting into unconsciousness and staring at two giant surgical lamps in a big empty cold surgery room and slowly scanning pale green walls, looking up to a tall white ceiling with cracks. I remembered the loneliness of that moment, the moment when it’s just you and the creator.

The anesthesiologist wrapped up and disappeared along with the nurse. I don’t remember at what point exactly the world went dark, but the next time I opened my eyes, I was back in the pre-op room. 

“Hi, dear,” said smiling Mariposa. There was a new nurse on duty and she and Mariposa were having a good time watching me wake up and speak incoherently for a few minutes. I got my phone and sent a few even more incoherent texts (by then Siri had given up on deciphering my accent, so it all came out as total gibberish). 

The surgery went really well and they didn’t have to put hardware in my hand, just a couple of pins tucked nicely under the cast. I wouldn’t become a robot after all, setting off alerts and holding up security lines at the airport. 

Mariposa and I stopped by the drug store to get painkillers. I didn’t feel any pain, but the thought of being unprepared scared me. We then went to the grocery store to pick up food. All I wanted was apples and blueberries. 

A shaman healer, Mariposa lit candles and put two little cacti and a quartz stone by the sides of my bed as soon as we got to my apartment. I had told her about my nightmares and waking up in the middle of the night with dread. So she wanted to make sure I had the protection and support of the spirits. Once we got home, I ate a few blueberries and some salad, upon Mariposa’s insistence. I then went to bed, while Mariposa prayed and made us a lentil soup. 

It was still light outside when I woke up. Mariposa had washed all fruits and veggies. I could smell the beeswax candles and the Palo Santo (“holy wood”) incense she had brought from Peru. I was in a magical, protective bubble, feeling safe and at peace. The day before the surgery was far away and the attack happened in a different lifetime. As the fear dissipated, I felt my body, my mind, and my soul heal. 

*** 

The hospitals and every agency I had approached for assistance, provided the best help they could offer and took care of everything. It took a lot of time and effort, but I felt tremendously grateful at the end. By Thanksgiving, I received two job offers and made travel plans for the holidays. I still avoided being out after dark and struggled with the cast, which I wore for six weeks. 

None of it really had to happen. But maybe death and survival — just like misery and happiness — coexist to bring each other into light. A series of small, seemingly inconsequential, decisions changed my life in an instant. All that appeared meaningful was reduced to nothing when trying to survive. All that was actually meaningful, but ignored in the busyness of everyday life, reemerged — from past pain to pain of others; from vulnerability to resilience; from fear to trust.