Being Brave

My mom likes to tell this story about the times I was in the hospital for my surgeries – when it was time for me to go into the OR, I’d get into the wheelchair or take the nurse’s hand and I would go down the hall and not look back.  Not even to give her or my dad one last wave as they prepared to wait in rooms that were made for just that.  Nope, I would just go on my merry way.  I was so brave. 
                                         
It’s been over 20 years now but I vividly remember those trips to the OR.  If I was in a wheelchair, I would count how long it took to get to the final destination.  If I was walking, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.  But I would not look back.  I wouldn’t look back because as scared as I was of what was in front of me, I was more scared about what I might see behind me.    

So, I would stare straight ahead, swallowing the lump of tears and fears lodged in my throat, and I went on my way straight into a room made for operating.

And when I woke up, I didn’t have to be quite so brave anymore, because they were always there, bravely waiting.