The day before surgery is mostly about tests. And waiting. The waiting is the worst part. You know it’s happening. The paperwork is signed. There’s no backing out now. And yet you still don’t know exactly what’s coming next. On Tuesday morning, I arrived at the hospital for admission. They registered me in two different offices, wished me good luck, and sent me across to the ward in the building opposite. Last year, I stayed on the second floor. I was actually looking forward to seeing the nurses again because I already knew the place. For some reason, though, they put me on the first floor this time. It didn’t really matter. Everything looked exactly the same.

A green wristband around my wrist.

Room number 12.

Yellow walls.

Orange bed sheets.

The smell of disinfectant.

Instantly, I was transported back to November.

Back to the day I was admitted and had absolutely no idea what was waiting for me.

A nasty ovarian infection.

They’d probably have to remove the ovary.

Then everything would be fine.

A month or two later, I’d be back on a beach in Thailand.

At least that was the plan.

This time, I already had a scar running across my abdomen.

And no hair.

Just a scarf wrapped around my head.

I also knew exactly what to pack and what I would need, so my suitcase was ready. Unlike last time. Back then, I hadn’t expected my three- or four-day hospital stay to turn into eighteen days.

The day before surgery is filled with tests.

ECG.

Internal medicine assessment.

Blood work.

Urine samples.

Last time, I also had an ultrasound in the evening. This time they skipped that part. Apparently the PET scans—the very scans that had landed me here in the first place—provided enough information. For lunch, I was allowed only clear broth. Then came the bowel preparation. A cheerful little orange-flavoured laxative. The powder dissolved nicely in the cup and even warmed itself up. Another dose followed in the evening. Good times. But none of that was the hard part.

The waiting was.

I needed time to process everything. This surgery was the destination we’d been heading toward all along. The chemotherapy had been given for one reason: to make surgery possible. When I was first diagnosed, the cancer had been too widespread. Operating wasn’t an option. Now it was. This wasn’t unexpected. This was exactly what I should have wanted.

So why was it so difficult?

Because after this operation, nothing would ever be quite the same.

They would remove my remaining ovary.

My fallopian tubes.

My uterus.

Part of the peritoneum—the soft fatty apron that covers the intestines.

My appendix.

Possibly part of my colon.

I’ll miss my ovaries.

And I’ll miss my periods too.

Strange as that may sound.

Not because I enjoyed them, obviously.

But because of everything they represented.

I’m old enough to understand reality, but the possibility of having another child still felt sacred somehow.

If life had unfolded differently, perhaps I would have had two children instead of one.

Then there were all the unknowns.

Hot flashes.

Mood swings.

How severe would they be?

How often?

Would hormone replacement therapy be possible?

Would it be necessary?

Everyone around me seemed to be moving forward with their lives while mine had been placed on indefinite pause. Opportunities were slipping past. Some people were gradually drifting away.

Where would I live?

Would I be able to move abroad again?

Could I continue maintenance treatment there?

Where would life ultimately be best for my son and me?

Tuesday felt very long. On Wednesday morning, they woke me shortly after seven. I had to shower again. Everyone in the hospital talks about showering as if we’ve all spent the day working in a coal mine. Everything was prepared. I was lying in bed wearing nothing, hidden beneath a blanket, waiting for the orderly to come and collect me. This time we didn’t have far to go. Just across the corridor and into the other side of the building. I arrived at what looked a bit like the serving hatch in a school cafeteria.

Or a morgue.

They were unloading a woman who had just come out of surgery, so they parked my bed in line behind her.Eventually a transfer platform slid up beside me. I climbed across, they covered me with nothing more than a sheet, and wheeled me into the operating theatre. This time, I remember everything right up until the moment they put me under.

Every detail.

I remember wanting to run away.

I remember being unable to stop crying.

And I remember holding the anesthesiologist’s hand—whether she wanted me to or not—until I finally fell asleep.