Yes, I have had surgery. In fact, if I tally it up, I’ve had three. Although, I feel like I’m forgetting one. And, if I am, so be it

Two were for a recurring issue, and a brand-new problem popped up this past year. It seems that surgery is a rite of passage—one that almost everyone undergoes at some point. Despite its commonality, it’s an intensely private affair for me. I’ve always had core support from a select few, but beyond that inner circle, I prefer to keep it under wraps.

Why the secrecy? Perhaps it’s because surgery, no matter how “minimally invasive,” is inherently scary. The moment I step into a hospital, my sole focus is to get it over with. I despise delays. Once I’m psychologically ready, I want to metaphorically rip the band-aid off—get me in, get me out, and let the healing begin.

My last surgery, however, forced me to disclose more than I wanted. Don’t ask—it’s a saga involving bureaucratic red tape and way too many people needing to know. But generally, I like to keep my medical escapades low-key.

The actual recovery process? That’s my time. Armed with comfort food and a remote, I recuperate in front of Buffy, Veronica Mars, and iZombie. There’s something soothing about binge-watching strong, resilient female leads kick butt while I mend.

Surgery, for all its terror and inconvenience, brings an opportunity for reflection. Each procedure is a reminder of the body’s fragility and resilience. It’s a stark, sometimes unwelcome pause button on the frantic pace of life, forcing you to slow down and heal.

So, while surgery might be a shared experience, the way we handle it is deeply personal. For me, it’s about privacy, swift action, and a cozy recuperation with my favorite TV heroines. Because when life throws you into the OR, you deserve a little supernatural drama to make the recovery bearable.