The Day After

Tonight I sit here after my pinky orthopaedic surgery, and the pain is in full effect.

There is no poetic way of saying that.

It hurts.

The kind of pain that makes you very aware of the part of your body you normally never think about. Every movement reminds me that something significant has happened inside my hand. Every time I instinctively try to use it, I am reminded that I cannot quite use it the way I did before.

Even writing this blog entry is difficult due to my limitations.

And yet, sitting here tonight, there is something else underneath the pain.

Gratitude.

Yesterday was a big day for me.

I was blessed to have Professor Randy Bindra at the Mater Hospital looking after me. From the moment I went through the process of having surgery to the care I received throughout the day, I felt like I was in good hands. There is something reassuring about knowing that the person operating on you understands exactly what they are doing.

So tonight I am sitting here with a sore hand, a tired body, and a mind that is trying to catch up with everything that has happened.

And honestly, I don't completely know how I feel.

That might be the most truthful place I can begin.

I don't know what the next few months are going to look like.

I don't know exactly how difficult recovery will be.

I don't know how quickly my hand will adjust.

I don't know how I will manage the things I normally do without thinking.

I don't know what it will feel like when the reality of the permanent changes begins to settle in.

But today I am trying something I have been learning for a long time.

I am trying to stay with today.

Not next month.

Not the end of recovery.

Not every possible complication.

Not every question that hasn't been answered.

Today.

Here.

Now.

That sounds simple.

It isn't always simple for me.

My mind has a habit of travelling.

It likes to get ahead of me.

It likes to look around corners.

I am already one day in, starting to have thoughts birthed out of frustration that want to control the narrative.

It likes to imagine what might happen.

Sometimes that can be useful. Sometimes preparation matters. Sometimes thinking ahead is responsible.

But there are moments when thinking too far ahead simply becomes another way of carrying something that I don't have to carry yet.

And today, I don't think I need to carry the next three months.

I need to carry today.

And even that needs to be done gently.

Yesterday I went into hospital knowing that my finger was going to be permanently changed.

That sentence still feels strange to write.

My left pinky finger will be different.

A piece of bone has been removed.

The finger has been shortened.

The joint has been fused.

There is now a stainless steel screw inside it.

For someone looking from the outside, perhaps it is easy to say, "It's only a finger."

And objectively, I understand that.

There are people going through catastrophic illnesses.

There are people fighting for their lives.

There are families sitting beside hospital beds praying for miracles.

There are people receiving diagnoses that will change everything.

there are people learning to live again after catastrophic injuries.

I know that.

But understanding perspective does not mean I am not allowed to feel what has happened to me.

Something has changed.

Something I have had since birth has been altered permanently.

And strangely, it has made me appreciate my hands in a way I never did before.

I have spent forty-three years using these hands without thinking about them.

I wake up and pick things up.

I make coffee.

I open doors.

I type.

I write.

I hold books.

I shake hands.

I hug people.

I pat my cats.

I work.

I create.

I build.

I have used these hands through almost every chapter of my life.

There are memories attached to them.

There are people attached to them.

There are moments attached to them.

There are things I have created with them that didn't exist before I made them.

There are pages I have written with them.

There are books that exist because these hands sat on a keyboard and kept going.

There are photographs I have taken.

Meals I have prepared.

Hands I have held.

People I have embraced.

There are ordinary things I have never considered extraordinary because they were simply part of everyday life.

Until suddenly one small part of my hand was no longer going to work the way it once did.

That changes your perspective.

It makes you grateful for things you previously considered automatic.

Maybe that is one of the strange gifts hidden inside physical limitation.

It teaches gratitude backwards.

We often think gratitude comes from receiving something new.

Sometimes gratitude comes from realising how precious something was that we never stopped to notice.

I think about that today.

I think about how many things in life I have assumed would always be there.

My ability to walk into a room.

My ability to work.

My ability to write.

My ability to pick up a cup.

My ability to use my hands without thinking.

My ability to move through an ordinary day without having to calculate every movement.

We don't normally think about those things.

We just do them.

Until something happens.

Then suddenly the ordinary becomes remarkable.

And perhaps that is why I don't want to spend today thinking only about what I have lost.

I want to notice what remains.

Because so much remains.

I am still here.

I can still write.

I can still think.

I can still create.

I can still work toward the things I care about.

I can still love people.

I can still wipe my own tears away.

I can still worship.

I can still make coffee.

I can still pat my cats.

I can still open a book.

I can still dream, and think about life's deep realities.

One part of one hand has changed.

My entire life has not disappeared.

That distinction matters.

Sometimes when something changes, our minds immediately try to make the change bigger than it is.

A physical change becomes an identity crisis.

A disappointment becomes a prediction about the future.

One difficult day becomes evidence that every day will be difficult.

One loss becomes proof that we will lose everything.

I know that pattern because I have lived it.

So today I am trying not to do that.

I am trying not to turn one day into a prophecy.

Yesterday was surgery.

Today is recovery.

Tomorrow will be tomorrow.

I don't need to know everything yet.

There is something deeply humbling about recovery.

You cannot rush your body into healing simply because your mind is impatient.

The body has its own timetable.

Bones heal when they heal.

Swelling settles when it settles.

Pain reduces when it reduces.

Strength returns gradually.

Movement changes.

The nervous system adjusts.

You learn.

You adapt.

You wait.

And waiting is not something our culture teaches particularly well.

We want everything immediately.

We want answers immediately.

We want healing on the spot.

We want certainty in front of us.

We want to know the outcome before we have even entered the process.

But some things cannot be rushed.

Recovery is one of them.

Perhaps that is another lesson I need to learn.

I don't have to be productive while I heal.

I don't have to turn recovery into another achievement.

I don't have to prove that I am handling everything perfectly.

I am allowed to recover.

I am allowed to be tired.

I am allowed to be frustrated.

I am allowed to have moments where I look at my hand and think, "I really wish this hadn't happened."

I am allowed to grieve what has changed without becoming ungrateful for what remains.

Both things can exist together.

I can be grateful for an excellent surgeon and still be angry that I needed surgery.

I can be grateful that the operation went well and still be in pain.

I can trust God and still have questions.

I can believe He is good and still say, "This hurts."

I think sometimes Christians have accidentally created an expectation that faith means being emotionally untouched by difficult circumstances.

I don't believe that anymore.

Jesus wept.

The Psalms are filled with questions.

Job questioned.

David questioned.

People throughout Scripture cried out to God from places of confusion and suffering.

Faith does not require me to pretend that pain isn't pain.

Faith gives me somewhere to take it.

And that is where I find myself today.

Taking it to God.

Not with some perfect prayer.

Not with beautifully constructed theology.

Just honestly.

"God, this hurts."

"God, I don't know what the next few months look like."

"God, help me today."

Sometimes the simplest prayers are the most honest ones.

I don't need to explain everything to Him.

He already knows.

He knows what happened yesterday.

He knows what is happening inside my body today.

He knows the questions that are running around inside my head.

He knows the things I am worried about.

He knows the things I haven't even found words for yet.

And that gives me permission to stop trying to explain myself perfectly.

I can simply be here.

There is something else I have been thinking about.

The idea that we are constantly becoming.

I wrote recently about being enough.

About how easy it is to believe that we need to become a better version of ourselves before we are allowed to appreciate the person we currently are.

This experience has brought that thought back to me.

My body has changed.

But I am still me.

The finger is different.

But I am still me.

The scar will be there.

The screw will be there.

The joint will be permanently fused.

There will be things I have to learn to do differently.

But those things don't get to decide my worth.

And perhaps that is something many of us need to remember.

We are more than what happens to our bodies.

We are more than our mistakes.

More than our failures.

More than our jobs.

More than our relationships.

More than our bank accounts.

More than our productivity.

More than our appearance.

More than the things we can or cannot do.

Life changes us.

Sometimes physically.

Sometimes emotionally.

Sometimes spiritually.

Sometimes through circumstances we never asked for.

But being changed does not mean being destroyed.

Sometimes we simply have to learn a new way of living.

That is where I am now.

Learning.

I don't want to pretend I have already accepted everything.

I haven't.

I am one day into recovery.

I think it is okay to be one day into something and not have all the emotional answers.

Maybe we put too much pressure on ourselves to immediately understand what something means.

Sometimes you just have to live through it first.

Meaning comes later.

Perspective comes later.

Understanding comes later.

Sometimes you need to let the experience breathe before you try to explain it.

Today is not the day I need to understand the next six months.

Today is the day I need to rest.

Today is the day I need to let my body begin doing what it knows how to do.

Today is the day I need to listen.

Today is the day I need to be gentle with myself.

And perhaps tomorrow I will have a different perspective.

That is okay too.

I think back to all the seasons of my life where I thought I needed to know exactly what was coming next.

I wanted certainty.

I wanted a map.

I wanted to know where the road ended.

But life has taught me something different.

Most of us don't receive the whole map.

We receive enough light for the next step.

That has become increasingly important to me as I grow older.

I don't need to know everything.

I need to know what is required of me today.

Today, that means healing.

Today, that means patience.

Today, that means accepting help when I need it.

Today, that means not becoming frustrated because my body isn't doing what it did before surgery.

Today, that means remembering that recovery is not failure.

Rest is not weakness.

Slowness is not laziness.

And needing time is not a character flaw.

Those are things I want to remember.

Because I know myself.

I can turn almost anything into a project.

I can analyse.

I can plan.

I can organise.

I can try to optimise.

But healing doesn't care about optimisation.

Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is nothing.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is rest.

Sometimes surrender is more courageous than control.

And perhaps that is what this season is going to teach me.

I have spent a lot of my life learning how to fight.

Fight illness.

Fight circumstances.

Fight addiction.

Fight fear.

Fight disappointment.

Fight myself.

Fight to rebuild.

Fight to keep going.

And there is a time for fighting.

But there is also a time for receiving.

Receiving care.

Receiving rest.

Receiving help.

Receiving grace.

Receiving the reality that I don't have to solve everything today.

That is a different kind of strength.

A quieter one.

It doesn't look impressive.

Nobody applauds someone for lying down and letting their body heal.

But perhaps some of the most important work we ever do happens in places where nobody is watching.

A wound healing.

A heart changing.

A mind becoming quieter.

A person learning to trust again.

A soul learning that it doesn't have to carry everything.

That kind of work doesn't photograph well.

It doesn't go viral.

It doesn't produce statistics.

But it matters.

So tonight I am sitting here trying to receive this moment.

The pain is real.

The uncertainty is real.

The frustration is real.

But so is the gratitude.

I am grateful for the medical team.

I am grateful for Professor Randy Bindra.

I am grateful for the care I received at the Mater Hospital.

I am grateful that the surgery is behind me.

I am grateful that I can now begin the process of recovery.

I am grateful for the people who have checked in.

I am grateful for the people who care.

And I am grateful that I am still here to write this.

That last one matters.

Because there was a time in my life when I wasn't sure I would be.

There have been chapters where tomorrow was not guaranteed.

There have been moments where survival itself was the victory.

So perhaps I shouldn't overlook the significance of sitting here today with a sore hand, a cup of coffee, and another opportunity to put words onto a page.

This is life.

Not the polished version.

Not the version where everything makes sense.

The real version.

The version where sometimes you wake up hurting.

The version where plans change.

The version where your body doesn't cooperate.

The version where you have questions.

The version where you don't know what comes next.

And yet there can still be beauty here.

There can still be gratitude.

There can still be God.

There can still be purpose.

There can still be a blank page.

And today, that is enough.

I don't know what the next few months will bring.

I don't know what this recovery will teach me.

I don't know what frustrations I will face.

I don't know what adaptations I will have to make.

I don't know how quickly everything will settle.

But I am learning not to demand answers from days that haven't arrived.

September 11 happened.

I am on the other side of it.

Now there is today.

And today is where I want to live.

Not because tomorrow doesn't matter.

It does.

But tomorrow will have its own grace when it arrives.

For now, I need the grace for today.

The grace to rest.

The grace to hurt.

The grace to recover.

The grace to be frustrated without condemning myself.

The grace to accept that my body has changed.

The grace to remember that my identity has not disappeared with that change.

The grace to trust God when I cannot see the whole road.

And perhaps that is the lesson I am taking from this first day after surgery.

I don't need to be strong enough for the next six months.

I don't need to know how everything will work.

I don't need to carry every possible outcome.

I only need to be present for today.

So I am going to try.

Today, I will rest.

Today, I will heal.

Today, I will be grateful.

Today, I will allow the pain to be real without allowing it to become the whole story.

Today, I will remember that something in my hand has changed, but my life has not ended.

Today, I will trust God with tomorrow.

And when tomorrow arrives, I will meet it then.

For now, I have this moment.

This morning.

This body.

This sore hand.

This cup of coffee.

This blank page.

And this strange mixture of pain, gratitude, uncertainty and peace.

Maybe I don't need to understand it all.

Maybe I simply need to sit here for a while.

And breathe.

And heal.

And let today be today.

---

About the Author

Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library of Australia. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 6.1 million views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the light found in ordinary places.

• Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
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