There were at least thirty people who took care of me for one surgical procedure and a single night stay in the hospital. All of these souls with one intention…to care for me, for my traumatized, and in some ways broken, body. My needs were always met. From registration, to pre-op, to surgery, to post-op to finally resting in Room 210.

Barely any of them knew me before I arrived for a left knee joint replacement. I had only met with my surgeon and his assistant before scheduling the procedure. That’s it. The thirty or so others were, well, perfect strangers. Perfect strangers caring for a perfect stranger.

I have to say it didn’t feel like strangers were caring for me. When the anesthesiologist talked with me about her role and what she could do to be sure I didn’t have the same reaction I had to anesthesia at my last surgery…I felt heard and confident. When I told my surgeon I also wanted to sign my knee with a Sharpie, to let him know this wasn’t just any old knee but my knee…he said sure! When I woke up after surgery there were at least five nurses swarming around me. Yes, swarming. They were all focused on my well being and my comfort. I felt important…the kind of important that feels like you must be the only person in the room. When I arrived in Room 210 another gaggle of perfect strangers began their care for me. From the afternoon and throughout the night all my needs were met: meds given, vitals checked, therapy provided.

I experienced more than just care. Many times with these perfect strangers I experienced kindhearted tenderness. It was something beyond measuring blood pressure, temperature, and urine discharge. It was beyond checking the boxes, pushing another one through, getting the shift in. Not for all, but for most, there was definitely something more. I could feel it. I could feel a warm, merciful intimacy. The kind that soothed my soul.

Perfect strangers, indeed. Emphasis on ‘perfect’. I am deeply grateful for every single one of them.

Much love
Paula