The verdict came after a brief examination and a sonogram of my prostate: surgery.
I had resisted that word ever since the problem was first diagnosed nearly eight years ago. The risks seemed too great. If medication could keep me going, then so be it. But time has its own plans. The sonogram revealed something new—two stones in my bladder. The pain and discomfort had become impossible to ignore. It was crunch time.
On a deeper level, I liked the doctor immediately. A urologist in his mid-thirties, he possessed the quiet confidence and reassuring manner I needed. His credentials were excellent, and his referrals glowing. I asked a few more questions, and each answer strengthened my confidence. Before I knew it, a surgery date had been set, and I wired the money from the United States.
There was something else.
As the day of surgery approached and apprehension quietly grew, I experienced something difficult to explain. It was as though a spirit drew near—not with words or visions, but with a calm assurance that settled over me. The fear did not disappear, but it no longer held the upper hand. I accepted that whatever lay ahead, I would not face it alone.
That quiet encounter confirmed what my heart was already telling me: stay grounded in Mexico and trust.
The operation lasted a little over two hours. The enlarged portion of my prostate was removed through the urethra, leaving the outer capsule intact. The two bladder stones were removed through a small incision in my abdomen.
The first night was the hardest. My bladder was continually flushed with saline, and the urine flowing through the catheter was filled with blood. There was pain, discomfort, and very little sleep.
Amy received a surprise of her own. Shortly after the surgery she was informed that she would be staying with me overnight. In Mexico, it is customary for a family member to remain with the patient around the clock. She hadn’t come prepared and endured a restless night in an uncomfortable chair. Yet her presence comforted me, and afterward I could appreciate the wisdom of the tradition. Hospitals can be lonely places. I never felt alone.
Our dear neighbors, Marta and Mayolo, have been with us every step of the journey. They are deeply embedded in the fabric of our lives, offering support and love each step of the way.
Now, four days later, I am slowly recovering. A catheter still protrudes from my body and drains into a bag that must be emptied with surprising frequency. I take my medications faithfully, drink more water than I ever imagined possible, and patiently wait for my body to heal. Blood still mixes with the urine, but each day there is a little less. In another week the catheter will be removed, and, I hope, a new chapter will begin.
I have nothing but praise for the surgical team, the nurses, and the remarkable little boutique hospital where I was treated. With only five patient rooms, it felt less like an institution and more like a place where people genuinely cared.
As I reflect on these past few days, I keep returning to that quiet presence that met me before the operation. Some may call it intuition, others grace, and still others simply the workings of the mind under stress. I only know that it gave me confidence when I needed it most. I have learned over the years to trust such moments. They have appeared before at important crossroads in my life, and once again they carried me safely across.
Healing, I am discovering, is not only a matter of the body. It is also an act of trust.
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