Some Days Are Just For Surrender

 It began like a dream - that hazy space between sleep and consciousness where reality bends. It started with a distant discomfort that was floating at the edges of my mind. Was this a dream about something or someone else? Then came that moment - that awful, crystallizing moment when dream morphed into reality, and my body jolted awake with a truth it couldn't ignore.

It was 2 AM, I had been asleep for just a few hours. My stomach twisted with the kind of intensity that makes you forget everything else exists. You know that feeling - when your gut becomes a living thing, writhing and churning like an angry sea. Each wave of cramping more violent than the last, building to a crescendo that had me curled into a fetal position. I knew what was coming. I tried to engage my Vagal system, deep-breathing, calming thoughts, but nah, nothing worked. The taps opened, both front and back end. Within a space of two hours, it felt like the entire fluid system in my body was depleted. The doctor in me kicked in, counting breaths between spasms and calm moments, checking the rate and quality of my pulse, estimating fluid losses while trying to rehydrate. I swallowed some pills hoping they would stay down in my stomach long enough to be absorbed before the next trip to the bathroom.

In those dark hours, as my body waged its internal war, I tried to maintain some semblance of dignity. I tried not to wake the entire household. I know what the thought of "mum is sick" would do to the entire household. I did not want to wake the man sleeping next to me either, but the frequent yanking of the blanket did that for me.

The hardest part wasn't the physical ordeal (P.S. the physical ordeal was brutally hard!) - it was the mental battle that followed. The thought of my work schedule in the morning, my operating room slate, the patients that had waited several months for their procedures loomed large.

The responsible anesthesiologist in me warred with the woman who could barely stand upright. I did not want to cancel my slate, yet I could not go to work half alive and frankly I wasn't sure I wouldn't end up in emergency room myself suffering from severe dehydration. I made the ultimate decision, though it wasn't really a choice at all. At 4 AM, I sent the message to my colleague, the words blurring on the screen: "I can't come in. I am dealing with a bad gastro"

Thankfully, it looked like the medication was beginning to kick in. I gave my husband instructions to call my colleague later in the morning just in case they missed my earlier text. I sent a message out to my other colleagues informing them I would be taking a wellness, not sickness, day. My husband took my phone, switched it to "Do Not Disturb", told the kids not to disturb me but in my haziness, I could still see one of them peeping into the room to "check on me". It's strange how illness strips away our roles - doctor, mother, professional - leaving just our vulnerable human core.

I'm reminded of a simple truth: the world keeps turning even when we pause. We build our schedules like fortresses, pack our days with commitments, and somehow convince ourselves that sheer willpower can override biology, until it can't, until our bodies launch a coup so decisive that all you can do is surrender. And here's the thing about surrender - it doesn't always come in the form of dramatic or catastrophic illness. Sometimes it's exhaustion. Sometimes it's burnout. Sometimes it's our mind and body simply saying, "Enough; Take a rest."

There's a peculiar grace in these forced stops. They remind us that beneath our carefully constructed professional identities, we're fundamentally human. They remind us that we're not machines to be optimized but humans who need care. That sometimes the bravest decision isn't pushing through - it's knowing when to bow out. And you know what, that urgent deadline? It will wait. That crucial meeting? Someone else will step in. The hospital will continue to function. The world will keep spinning. The sky will still be blue, and clouds will still drift by. And here I am learning (again) that sometimes the most productive thing we can do is absolutely nothing.

Now, as the sun climbs higher and the temperature rises, and as my body begins its tentative return to normalcy, I find myself grateful for this unexpected lesson. Because some days aren't for conquering mountains or saving lives. Some days are just for healing, for breathing, for remembering what truly matters.

And that's more than enough.

P.S. To my colleagues who stepped in without question, who rearranged their days to cover mine - thank you. These moments remind me that we're not just a healthcare team, we're a human team.