I met with Dr. Swanson in his office on Monday, where he scheduled my surgery for Thursday. Dennis wasn’t with me during this visit—he was just as overwhelmed by my cancer diagnosis as I was.

We both felt afraid, anxious, and helpless. Dennis struggled to be the caretaker I needed at the time. On the other hand, Dr. Swanson was excellent at explaining everything clearly. However, I was too distracted and stressed to fully process what he was saying.

When Dr. Swanson noticed Dennis wasn’t there, he asked why, and I told him Dennis wasn’t feeling well. Although nervous, I have a knack for compartmentalizing my emotions in tough moments. During our conversation, Dr. Swanson inquired about my religious beliefs. I explained that I identified as Episcopalian, though I had lost touch with my spiritual life over the past five years. He then asked if I had ever heard of Caroline Myss, which I had not.

Caroline Myss, a New York Times bestselling author, is known for her work on human consciousness, spirituality, mysticism, and health.

In 1988, she co-wrote The Creation of Health: The Emotional, Psychological, and Spiritual Responses that Promote Health and Healing, which explores the connection between emotional distress and physical illness. Dr. Swanson gave me an audio recording of the book and encouraged me to listen to it as much as possible before my surgery. This groundbreaking collaboration between a traditionally trained physician and a medical intuitive explains how emotional disturbances can manifest as physical ailments, covering everything from common colds to chronic diseases like arthritis, diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. It delves into intuitive medicine, its history, and how it complements traditional medical approaches. I listened to the recording at least ten times in the three days leading up to my surgery.

By 8 a.m. on Thursday, I was in the operating room with my surgical team. The gown felt uncomfortable, and so did I, but the room was filled with Beatles music, just as I had requested. As the anesthesia began to take effect, I remember being gently rolled over so they could access the area on the back of my neck where the surgery would take place. I had also decided to have the skin graft taken from my upper right thigh, which would then be used to cover the area on my neck.

Suddenly, I felt a crushing blow to my back, as if my body was being forced down. Then, just as abruptly, it felt like I was being pulled back up, my body twisting and turning in the process. I tried to look around, but I couldn’t see anything.

Then, I was pushed again, and for a brief moment, I saw myself lying face down on the operating table as if I were floating above my own body. Everything went silent—no music, no voices, not even my breathing. Looking to my right, I saw my mom walking toward me. She sat down beside me on the bench where I now found myself. I broke down in tears. Just as suddenly, my grandfather George appeared, sitting to my left.

I took a deep breath and felt like I was being drawn into a cloud, everything moving slowly. Suddenly, I was pushed off the bench, only to be pulled back again, panic setting in as I grabbed onto my mom. I could feel her hand firmly holding mine. Each passing second felt like an eternity, and in that moment, I had no idea whether I was alive or dead.

Just as I was drifting out of consciousness, I felt my grandfather grasp my arm and my mom wrap her arms around me. My body felt utterly limp, drained of all strength, yet I could still see myself lying motionless on the operating table.

Then, my mom softly said, “It’s okay; you’ll be alright.”

Looking down at myself and back up, I realized my mom and grandfather had vanished.

In their place, another figure stood near the operating table—someone who hadn’t been there before.

They weren’t part of the surgical team and weren’t wearing any medical attire, not even a mask.

“That’s impossible,” I thought.

How could someone be in the operating room without proper clothing? Yet, I could see this person and felt their hands gently caressing my head. I also noticed that the figure was a man, barefoot. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the recovery room. I could not comprehend what I had experienced in that surgery room.

Dr. Swanson came in and gently placed his hand on my arm.

“We got it all,” he said.

Suddenly, I felt myself detach from my body again. I watched the nurses check my vitals and adjust my fluids from above. I briefly wondered how much pain my body would feel after the surgery. The moment that thought entered my mind, I was pulled backward by an invisible force as though I were being drawn into a tunnel. I moved slowly at first, then a loud, roaring sound engulfed me, and in an instant, I was speeding through space, my mind empty.

Everything faded—the hospital, the surgery, even the fact that I had been floating outside my body.

Then, before me, stood the exact barefoot figure from the operating room; he was tall, with striking green eyes and beautiful brown hair that cascaded around his neck. He wore a long white robe adorned with intricate gold symbols along the sleeves, symbols unlike anything I had ever seen. He didn’t speak—he just looked at me.

As I glanced around, I noticed other people dressed in everyday clothes in the distance. I didn’t recognize them, yet I felt a strange curiosity. I stepped toward him and the crowd, but just as I did, a hand gently rested on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.

“The real work of your life begins now,” he said softly, his voice resonating through my entire being.

Real work? Begins?

The words didn’t fully sink in. I took another step forward, but once again, I was stopped, this time by a gentle hand placed over my heart. The moment he touched me, I felt myself falling backward—back into my hospital bed, back into my body. Immediately, the pain hit me: the ache from the surgery on my neck and the discomfort of the skin graft on my upper right thigh. Everything felt strange, unfamiliar.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Dr. Swanson leaning over me.

“Doré, are you alright?” Dr. Swanson asked gently.

I wanted to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. I just stared at him, feeling confused and disconnected, like I was somehow outside of my own body.

His expression grew more concerned.

“Doré, we had some difficulty waking you up. You’ve been unconscious for over four hours.”

Dr. Swanson approached Dennis in the waiting room and said, “She’s going to live.”

Dennis looked at him, alarmed.

“What do you mean, ‘She’s going to live’? I thought the surgery went fine and that she was just in recovery. What happened in there?”

“There were complications with her waking up,” Dr. Swanson explained.

Dennis’s frustration was evident. All this time, he had assumed everything was normal, unaware that something serious had occurred in the recovery room.

He walked in to see me, his face tense with worry.

He approached the bed and asked, “Doré, how are you feeling?”

I drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that someone was holding my hand.

My next clear memory was waking up the following day in a regular hospital room.

It slowly dawned on me how much pain I was in. My thigh was so tender that even the light pressure of a sheet was unbearable. Dr. Swanson came in with a few younger medical students trailing behind him.

“Let’s see how you’re doing today,” he said, examining me. He moved a light around my head, studying my eyes.

“We’ll need to keep you here for a few more days for observation. Your vital signs look good now, but we’ll know more after changing your bandages tomorrow.”

The next day, Dr. Swanson returned with the same group of students. Once again, he shined his light in my eyes, checking my progress.

“Alright, it looks like you’ll be ready to leave the day after tomorrow. You can go home then.”

By then, my thigh had already started to heal, but my neck was tightly bandaged, restricting any movement. The graft would need several weeks to settle in. As I sat in the wheelchair, I realized Dennis was the one pushing me out of the hospital. We were heading home, where our daughter was waiting for me. But I knew, as I left, that I wasn’t the same person who had entered the hospital for surgery.