Where I have been

My brand is raw and honest storytelling and I chose to do some of that today

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

Tuesday March 7th, I was scheduled for a routine surgery at a hospital on the Upper East Side.

I won’t lie.

The surgery was a little bit urgent.

I’m 52. My uterus and I have not been friends for years. For the last 3, it was depleting my other organs of valuable blood and oxygen.

We had to say goodbye to one another now.

Matt (and I) had strapped in for a 2 hour, in and out operation.

But something was niggling at me. Gnawing at me. Matt has generational wealth. Money he himself has worked hard for. He’s ensured there is a succession plan for me. As a kid born to immigrants, I did not. The day before, I downloaded a living will and testament from LegalZoom for $99.

As I hoisted myself on the operating table hours later, the anesthesiologist quipped that I spelled my name wrong. My dad added an extra “S” to “Dass” to be more American when he emigrated —-much to every Indian’s dismay, including this one’s.

He gave me an extra sedative as I settled onto the operating table.

Matt had signed it, but the living will remained unnotarized and unwitnessed in my Google Folder as left for the hospital. I stared up at the ceiling, waves of something welling big in my chest.

At hour 2, Matt stared at the door expectantly hoping to get word.

On a good day, he’s a curmudgeon. The dueling tvs overhead in the waiting room, blaring “Price is Right” and “Rachel Maddow” was really winding his clock.

At hour 4, he started to pace.

At hour 8, he started to panic.

At hour 9, the doctor shared.

My uterus and I were not only —not—-friends, but another fellow compatriot had made things more complicated. A condition had caused the equivalent of celophane tape to fasten my organs together, like Spider man’s web. The “cellophane tape” had fused my bowels and uterus together.

At hour 4, my gyno surgeon had to call in in another surgical team specializing in separating organs.

At hour 9, the gyno surgeon finally extracted my arch nemesis.

When I woke, I couldn’t make heads or tails of what had happened. Waves and waves of teams of doctors came in, introduced themselves and looked at me like I was a seal at the zoo.

“Can I go home?”
”No, you will have to stay here a minimum of 3 days.”

Three days turned into 5 days.

At one point, we lobbied to move me from “doorway” to “Window” so I could peak out onto Park Avenue.

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I’m now two weeks out from surgery and trying to resume my work from bed.

I’ve had alot of “think” time on my own.

3 things I learned:

I don’t give myself enough credit.

Over the years, I had hired a bookkeeper, who synced with my accountant come tax time. I had hired a sales team. I had hired a content management team. I had hired specialists on the ground for each country I was hosting retreats. I had an incredible #2.

The taxes got filed. The content engine kept running. My calendar is booked with sales calls when I’m fully up and running. My Vienna retreat is planned and deposits are down.

When I was reduced to the ‘just-enough’ list, I didn’t give myself enough credit for the help I had the courage to hire and empower these last years.

There is a litmus test for ‘quality of rest’

I had been reduced to rubble. With 5 cuts across my abdomen and no self mobility, I had been dropped into a sensory deprivation tank and all I could do —— was rest.

My friend Gino often talked about the quality of rest. For the first time, I understood what that turn of phrase meant.

Uninterrupted. Pure foods. Pure liquids. No one. Nobody. No alcohol. No Slack. No books.

Just you and your thoughts.
I could ‘hear’ myself through the haze of the drugs they were pumping into me.

I could ‘hear’ myself at 3am, when the temperature would drop drastically in the hospital, like clockwork. Cold creeping in from every crevice. I would ask the attendant to crack open the hot rocks fans bring to football games to keep their hands warm.

When I get better, I want to commit to Two Hours to Greatness

I have the great benefit of great friends

Living in New York City is an estrangement of its own, because everyone’s family is a plane or train ride away.

If you know my story, I’m estranged from my family. Remember the added “s”? to Dass? First generation maybe has it the hardest. We just couldn’t agree to meet in the middle.

Friends came to sit with me, feed me, help me to get up and out of bed, shower. I realized there is a currency so much greater than money.

In order to have great friends, you have to BE a great friend.

I had to thank myself, for showing up for all of these relationships. Not because I had to. But becuase I wanted to. Consistency Wins

Conclusion:


I’m a small business owner. I talk about how-to’s and tutorials on a million business things on this channel.

But my brand is raw and honest storytelling and I chose to do some of that today