Twice I have had surgery, both times for Caesarean-sections. Each time I was taken to the recovery room following the procedure. After receiving anesthesia, one must be monitored closely until the anesthesia is safely out of the system and all the feeling returned to one’s extremities. Both times I was awake, having only been administered anesthesia from the midsection down. I remember feeling cared for like at no other time in my life. There was one other person there, a nurse, whose sole job was taking care of me. When I said that I was cold, I was offered warming blankets until I was comfortable. As I was so often cold in those days, my circulation to my feet less than stellar, this experience of feeling completely warm was especially sweet. Nothing was expected of me except to rest and regain my feeling.

I struggled with feelings of being unloved as a child. Even though there were valid reasons for the occurrence, I didn’t always have the care of my parents in my early years, which caused this hole in me. I have been striving all my life to fit, and to be worthy, and to be precious to someone. But I pushed people away – intentionally and unintentionally – and no matter how many people affirmed me in many different circumstances, I always knew that it wouldn’t last somehow. When I would get moody, and people were scared away, I believed that was truly how they felt about me. When I fell short of living out the expectations of my faith, I felt that my true colors were showing, and I needed to try harder so I would be acceptable. I desperately wanted someone to take care of me, expecting nothing from me. I didn’t believe that would ever be possible, but I yearned for it.

The moments in the recovery room were like a little glimpse of heaven. There was peace. There was no striving. My only job was to allow myself to be cared for. Those recovery room experiences were 19 and 22 years ago, but I recall them as if yesterday. Feeling warm and safe have a way of sticking with you.

Today I am in a new place being cared for with no expectations. It is a recovery room of sorts, but this time I am not alone. My husband and I are spending some time on a Caribbean beach at a resort where all of our needs for food and shelter are included. The staff meets our needs. No one has expectations of us. We can sleep all day or spend the day in the ocean waves. It matters not. I have much to give, but until I allow myself some time to be cared for and to heal, I cannot access it. Here’s to time for recovery, with its safety and warmth.