The Wei-zard of Oz

The last two months have been a full spectrum of emotions.

We started 2026 with pure joy, celebrating my mother-in-law’s 70th birthday. Days later was usual scans, Larry’s shenanigans, so many tears, and lots of talking and processing. Then it was the distinct promise of hope, restoration, and peace from the Lord, and finally the fear and the frustration of it all set in. But if I’m honest, a lot of these happened simultaneously and all at once, and it was just a lot. January was an absolute beast.

Since the moment lung surgery was the plan, I knew with every bit of certainty that God was going to do it again (see last post) and I was going to be ok, but that seemed to only make the frantic thoughts of tragedy and the fears roar louder. I’d go days carrying on like normal and then realize I was doing and saying things to prepare my husband and family to potentially live life without me. I bought us a hand casting kit for Valentine’s Day and started sobbing before I could even hand it to him as I realized I hadn’t just purchased it to be sweet, but so he would always be able to hold my hand. I created playlists and took all the pictures and videos, and I thought way too much about what kind of legacy I would leave behind someday, who might show up to celebrate my life, and what it might be like to meet Jesus, all the while hoping February 25th wasn’t the day. All I cared about was waking up in recovery alive.

It was all completely baffling. I felt fine. Zero symptoms, best shape of my life, pilates princess kind of fine. But I was about to have a chunk of my lung removed? None of it made sense other than the whole medical history part, but in a weird way the medical history part is the blessing of it all. Even 9 years out, I’m still scanned regularly and monitored closely, and I’m forever grateful for that as annoying as scan days can be. Provision.

We went into surgery consult prepared. We knew what questions to ask. And we left feeling good about the plan of attack. Larry. Must. Die. No biopsies (IYKYK). No “let’s wait and see”. I wanted him gone and I did not beat around the bush in making that clear! And I mean, c’mon, is there anything else that makes a surgeon happier than a patient giving them full consent to cut? A wise man once told me, “a chance to cut is a chance to cure” so I was ready.

Surgery: February 25, 2026

We arrived at 6am. The hospital was still quiet from the night. I wasn’t nervous, but I definitely wasn’t prancing around in there like I was for Glanda’s execution day. This one felt different. I was seasoned. I was prepared. And I knew what was coming for me on both sides of the scalpel (for the most part).

Around 7:30am, they called my name. I hopped right up and skipped over without looking back, kissing my husband, or saying a word before I realized that they weren’t just calling me up about the nausea pill I had planned to take and they were supposed to let me know about. I followed the lady through the halls. She handed me a purple, papery gown, a white bag for my belongings, and pulled the curtain across the tracks of pre-op #14. I was alone.

I had about 30 minutes to myself to sit with the gravity of what was about to happen. I was hours away from having at least one segment of my lower left lung removed for a suspected malignancy. The moment felt heavy and the tears welled up in my eyes with urgency as I anxiously awaited someone to join me behind the curtain.

The next few hours were spent with people in and out from behind the curtain, including nurses, anesthesiologists, residents, as well as so many of our dear people coming by to pray for me, hug me, and kiss Larry’s sorry arse goodbye until it was time for surgery. An hour turned into two, and finally around noon the OR was prepped and ready for me. And they were READY! So ready that I hardly remember which direction we headed from the pre-op bay or what anyone said or did in that moment. But I know I hugged my precious K.T. and my mom and my sweet Emory Hope, and I was on my way.

The rest is blurry until they were backing me into the OR and I asked what OR we were in. I knew for Glanda, we were in lucky #13 so I had to make sure we weren’t doing that again, knowing dang well that me asking wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. And then the “oxygen” mask (liars) was before me and it was lights out. I didn’t even get to count backwards or joke with Dr. Wei beforehand.

3.5 hours later

Dr. Wei came out to speak with my family mid-afternoon while the residents finished closing and I got settled back in recovery. All had gone well with nothing significant to report, which is exactly how we like it. Boring and normal surgery!

I woke up in recovery pretty lucid and cozy (and with a ponytail which I don’t remember doing). I remember the resident coming by and saying they only had to take two segments and she was able to snag a picture of Larry that she would send to me later. Yes, I asked for this, so I was pumped she delivered. Pretty sure all I said was “praise God” and then I realized I was AWAKE…in recovery! I made it! I still don’t know why this fear plagued me so much considering not a single person had said anything about not making it through this surgery. Maybe it was the weight of the whole lung surgery part, or maybe I’ve spent too much time working in the hospital. Regardless, I made it.

To me, the hardest part was over.

The next thing I remember was opening my eyes to my K.T. sitting beside my gurney in recovery holding my hand just sweetly watching me rest. For hours, every single time my eyes opened, they met his gaze and it was the most calming comfort in those moments as we waited for room W538 to be discharged, cleaned, and ready. As the day closed out for the pre-op/recovery crew, we were moved just down the hall to a slightly more private, PACU area to continue to wait for a room.

I felt every divot in the hallway tiles on the way there and once we arrived, the longest 5 steps of my life were to take place. I took a quick glance up…Room 13 (I really thought we avoided that one but I digress). I was supposed to roll over, sit up, stand up, and walk to my new, more comfortable bed with a heart monitor, chest tube and lego block container, IV tree, and Lord knows what else attached to me. It seemed like it all just might exceed the 10lb weight limit I knew I was restricted to post-op but for once, I chose to limit my shenanigans and just walk to my new bed like a good little patient.

For the next several hours, family and friends were in and out to see me post-op in our little cubby hole before they headed home for the night. We checked in periodically on W538 in hopes we might be able to move up to a more comfortable and private space, but by 11pm we were told it was probably best to just settle in and plan on camping out there for the night. Meanwhile, a few cubbies down, someone’s tummy was not well and if you know me, it will not shock you to hear that I spent the next two hours with my fingers in my ears to block out the wretching. Lucky number 13, y’all.

1:30am

W538 was finally unoccupied, clean, and ready for the Powells! So we piled everything on the end of my bed and pushed off on our journey to Spain Wallace for the rest of our stay. The bumps felt a little more tolerable this ride and honestly, I was just glad I didn’t have to plug my ears anymore.

K.T. quickly turned the couch into his bed for the night and situated himself so he had a clear view of me if he woke up. At this point, K.T. had been awake 21 hours, so the almost immediate and subtle hum of his snores were pleasant and welcome. It meant he was finally resting after what I can only imagine was a tough day. We hadn’t had time to talk about how his day had gone, but I can’t imagine it was easy for him to navigate a second surgery day for his wife.

The night was filled with periodic vitals, beeping, potty breaks, repositioning, blood draws, deep breaths, and me trying to figure out just how many wires and tubes were attached to me and/or the wall. That count became immediately evident when I decided to take myself to the potty around 3am and let K.T. continue snoozing, as I had to yank at least two cords from the wall socket and wrap another few around the IV tree to go about my way, not to mention trying to stand up with a whole chest tube inside of me and breathe. Not my brightest moment, but who’s surprised at my efforts? Don’t worry. It wasn’t long before I was in trouble. My IV had clipped the couch corner and K.T. woke to find me scooting backwards dragging all 73 cords with me back to my bedside, where I politely asked if he could plug those two cords back into the wall. In my defense, it was dark and IV trees are hard to steer.

By 7am our room was bustling with rounds, talk of discharge, preparation to take out the chest tube, and x-rays to make sure everything looked good with my guts. I have no idea who that little x-ray tech was but he had to reposition the x-ray zamboni because he said I had long lungs and that was almost more exciting than hearing I could go home. If you have to have a chunk of your lung removed, long lungs is what you want if you ask me! I had fully prepared mentally to stay another night but was absolutely overjoyed to hear I was about to go home, tube free less than 24hrs after major lung surgery. This also meant I could put clothes on. Hallelujah! By 10am, I was tucked safely in the front seat of the car with my knees to my chest headed home to my couch and bed.

February 26, 2026

We were home. I was alive. I could breathe perfectly fine.

Miracles upon miracles if you ask me. It was a miracle how fast this all happened. Not out of medical urgency, but out of alignment of schedules and availability of care. It was a miracle that Larry was found as tiny as he was, and that Dr. Wei agreed that he was in a resectable space and could be removed safely. It’s a miracle that we have a close friendship with my first surgeon, Dr. Carroll (and Nancy), that they could be a source of knowledge, wisdom, and comfort to us through these two months and beyond. It’s a miracle that Larry is fully and completely gone and in the trash. Praise God.

While these two months have felt heavy in so many ways. I still go back to that moment with that song. I know that sometimes, those God-winks don’t land quite as impressively on others as they do for the ones God gives them to, but it was an unspeakable peace from that moment on that I would be ok and I have to trust that. Even in the times of fear and the unknown that my mind often wandered to, I knew. But I stayed honest with myself and allowed myself time and space to process those feelings and why I might be having them, always making sure I returned to what I felt like was a promise from the Lord. And it carried me through.

Surgery day was peaceful and tender when it could have been chaotic and anxiety-filled. Prayers were answered with how much lung tissue had to be removed. Our care team felt hand-picked for us. I went home from massive lung surgery less than 24hrs later. And my favorite detail of all…Larry was executed in OR #7…the biblical number for completion.

To me, it is finished. Praise be to God.