At the end of October in 2021, I went into the hospital for a routine hiatal hernia repair. I expected to stay overnight. But there was a “complication,” and I ended up on the Critical Care Unit for a week — without food or drink.

Now, every year, as Halloween and Election Day and the anniversary of my mother’s birth (Nov. 4) roll around, I get the heebie-jeebies. A burst of post-traumatic stress.

It was a difficult experience. I’m still processing it.

But this year, I have been thinking of my experience in a new way. It was hard enough to hear that a friend needed major surgery. But when she told me it was scheduled for Halloween, I shuddered inwardly as I remembered being in bed, hooked up to five tubes while being tended to by a nurse in a T-shirt with a pumpkin motif.

I shared my mental image with my friend in a lighthearted way, but I hoped I had more to offer her in the way of support. Like what? The experience did give me an insight into what it takes to endure a difficult situation. I’ve learned how to look on the bright side of my problems. I’ve learned quite a bit — and am still learning — about myself along the way.

I was still groggy from the anesthesia when I heard the grim news. A tableau of foggy faces in front of me. My first thought was, “I’m trapped!”

It was my worst fear. When I was growing up, there were still a few polio outbreaks. I’d been vaccinated, but I still had a horror of the worst possible outcome of the disease — to have to live in an iron lung. To be paralyzed would be the worst thing that could happen to me.

My abhorrence of confinement led to a dislike of zoos, though I loved animals. I hated seeing dogs chained outside.

Now here I was — stuck. My first thought, when lucid, was: “How can I unhook myself from these tubes and get out of here?”

Right. My esophagus had been nicked in the procedure. I had to make it through the week while it healed. Then I would swallow a substance while being X-rayed to make sure the break was all sealed up.

I refused to think of what would happen if I failed the test.

There was no escape. I had to lie there with horrible thoughts racing through my head.

I am still in awe — because my entrapment phobia is so intense — that I was able to make it through the week with only a couple of minor meltdowns. But I learned that I just had to deal with the situation. I had no other option. I read my books, napped and looked forward to visits from my husband, Paul. Pandemic restrictions were still in place so I couldn’t see anyone else. But I could text and talk on the phone.

It’s not easy to look on the bright side when you can’t eat or drink. I have realized since this experience that I actually think about eating and drinking most of the time.

But there was no food forthcoming while I was in the hospital. I couldn’t even have a sip of water. Where was the bright side? I was alive.

This took me weeks to realize. I was initially angry about my predicament. I didn’t ask “why me?” Why not me, is my philosophy. No, I was just upset with the universe. I had prepared myself for surgery, for a period of recovery that would include a modified diet.

I wasn’t ready to fast for seven days!

But, eventually, I saw how lucky I was that the doctors noticed the nick immediately, and fixed it on the spot. If they hadn’t, the resulting “complications” could have been a lot worse.

I recently discovered that I could read a play-by-play of my surgery — the “Horrible Hernia Horror Show,” as I call it — on my patient portal app. It was disturbing to read, but the report reinforced my feeling that I was fortunate; that I should be grateful.

Perhaps even more interesting were the notes of the chaplain who, along with a priest, visited me. “She at first was struggling being at the hospital and CCU …” But I was now demonstrating a positive attitude and was accepting “that she needs the rest and care that CCU can offer. Patient demonstrates a strong faith that is clearly a comfort to her.”

I had come a long way in four days.

The Horrible Hernia Horror Show was the first time I’d spent any time in a hospital. I’d had minor surgeries before, such as a carpal tunnel release and a bunionectomy. But this was the big time. I had plenty of time to think about the fragility of life (not to mention my esophagus) that week. I am always chastising myself to “go with the universe” and stop trying to control life. Here was my opportunity.

I made it through and I’m a stronger person for it. As for my friend, she called me from her hospital bed to tell me she was out of surgery and doing well. But we had to cut the conversation short because her dinner was arriving. Dinner!

I can’t tell you how happy that news made me.

Liz Soares welcomes email at lizzie621@icloud.com.