The Becoming Between Us

Today I sat in a chair I don’t usually sit in.

Hospitals and surgery centers have a strange smell to them. Not bad exactly… just familiar. Clean in a way that somehow still carries worry in the air. The kind of place where everyone speaks softer and smiles just a little more than normal.

Tim had a minor procedure today.

Minor.

Such a funny word. I’ve had enough surgeries in my life to know there is nothing minor about being the one in the gown. You still sign papers. You still surrender your clothes and dignity. You still wait. And someone still says things like, “This will just take a minute.”

Which medically translates to approximately… nobody knows.

Only this time…I wasn’t the patient. That felt strange. Usually I’m the one waking up groggy and confused while Tim sits quietly nearby. Tim has been there through so many surgeries over the years.

Not dramatically. Not movie-scene style. Just… there. Holding my belongings. Driving me home. Helping me sit up. Making sure medications were on schedule. Pretending I looked fantastic when I clearly resembled an exhausted woodland creature.

Showing up.

Healing isn’t always done by doctors. Sometimes healing looks like someone staying. Then came my first reminder of the day that meaningful moments are often wrapped in ridiculous packaging.

Tim stood up.

Now… nobody had informed him that hospital gowns require active participation. Specifically, the tying portion. And when he stood, well, let’s just say there are reasons hospital gowns come with strings. I launched into action with surprising speed.

The nurse turned away attempting professionalism. I tied the back while trying not to laugh.

Tim?

Completely unaffected. Like accidentally mooning an outpatient surgery center was just another Tuesday.

Crisis contained. Dignity mostly restored.

Then came my second realization.

Why are anesthesiologists always… delightful?

This is not my first surgery rodeo. At this point I’ve probably had enough procedures to earn a punch card and complimentary pudding cup.

And every single time, without fail, the anesthesiologist walks in like they’ve just come from brunch with friends.

Calm. Funny. Relaxed.

Questionable levels of joy for someone whose job includes saying, “Count backward from ten…” So when ours walked in asking all the important questions and immediately making Tim feel comfortable, I finally asked.

“Can I ask you something?”

He smiled.

I said, “Is it a requirement that anesthesiologists be this fun and full of joy? Because I swear every one I’ve ever had has been like this.”

Without missing a beat he grinned. “It’s because we aren’t the surgeons.”

Then added, “Same pay… less stress.”

We laughed.

But then he told us his story. Why he chose anesthesia. Why surgery wasn’t for him.

How he loved helping people through difficult moments without carrying the same weight surgeons carry. And I thought…that actually made sense.

Surgeons fix. Anesthesiologists guide people safely through. Not everyone is called to hold the scalpel. Some people become the steady voice. The calm presence.

The one who quietly says, I’m here. You’re safe. I’ll stay until you wake up.

Meanwhile somewhere down the hall was another nurse, not ours, who kept flying past on one of those rolling stools. Not sitting.

Launching.

Back and forth. Like she had secretly missed her calling as a hospital hallway skateboard champion. I never figured out where she was going. But every time she zipped by I smiled. Because somehow hospitals still contain ordinary people doing ordinary funny things.

Then the waiting stretched.

An hour. Then two. And somewhere inside those unexpected hours, our nurse shared her story.

Not polished. Not dramatic. Just offered quietly between checking charts and making people feel safe. She had served as a nurse in the military. She spoke with pride about her team. How incredible they were.

How together, they never lost a patient.

Except once.

Her voice softened. There had been one. She was with him. She held his hand as he died. And afterward she carried something heavy. Not guilt exactly. Not regret. Something harder to name.

For years she thought about his mother. She wished she could tell her about his final moments. Tell her what he said. Tell her what he experienced. Tell her he was treated with dignity. Tell her someone stayed. Tell her she wasn’t alone in losing him.

But life moved on. And those words never found their place. Years later something unexpected happened. The family invited the entire medical team to a celebration honoring him. And they asked her to speak. She stood there and shared the story she had quietly carried all those years.

And afterward one of his brothers approached her. She thought he was crying because he was grieving the loss. Instead he said something she never expected.

Those were tears of joy. Because all these years…he had wondered if his brother died alone.

And now, he knew he didn’t. And suddenly I realized, the thing she had carried as a wound…their family had carried as a question. And somehow…her story healed both.

Not because she saved him. But because she stayed. And I sat there thinking, I know what it feels like to survive. And I know what it feels like to stand beside suffering. I learned that young. I watched people I loved hurt in ways I couldn’t fix. I’ve sat beside pain that had no neat ending. I know what it means to stay.

But what struck me about her wasn’t the loss. It was that she kept showing up afterward. She kept helping. She kept caring. She kept staying. And years later she learned something she never expected, that what she remembered as losing someone…their family remembered as their son and brother not being alone.

And then I thought about Tim. How many times had he done exactly that for me? How many times had I opened my eyes after surgery and seen him sitting there?

Waiting. Steady. Safe.

Today, I got to be that person. I got to wait. I got to tie the gown. I got to laugh with the nurse. I got to sit quietly and make sure he felt safe.

Her becoming looked like service. Mine looked like surviving. Tim’s looked like staying.

Different stories. Same quiet truth. Becoming isn’t becoming someone else. It’s becoming more fully who you already are,

one wait, one scar, one laugh,

one act of love at a time.

If this story stayed with you…

This week’s Delay the Binge™ newsletter picks up where this story leaves off.

Inside this week’s early access episode in The Becoming Series, I sit down with Erin Treacy (Tuesday) and Leslie Grandy (Thursday) to explore something that feels deeply connected to today’s story:

What happens when becoming doesn’t look the way we expected?

We talk about:
✨ why high achievers keep pushing even when they’re exhausted
✨ the difference between motion and momentum
✨ how small pauses change direction
✨ and why becoming doesn’t happen all at once

Because this is how I hope these stories work together:

The story helps you feel it. (PJ Hamilton Short Story)
The message helps you understand it. (Inside the Binge)
The conversation helps you see it. (Behind the Mic)

If you’d like to go one layer deeper into this week’s message, and get early access to this week’s episode, join us here:

Delay the Binge™ Newsletter