Doubt, Belief, and Healing After Top Surgery
By Keely Miyamoto
For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought that the biblical story of so-called “Doubting” Thomas got a bad rap.
I don’t identify as particularly religious, but I was raised church-going. And while I appreciate this parable’s point about the potency of belief, I could never bring myself to accept that belief is somehow better when it is blind. Any sort of faith is inherently trying, and if one acquiesces to being tested in this way, I cannot see the flaw in asking experiences to confirm one’s commitment. Belief is, undoubtedly, a powerful thing. But so, too, is proof.
Heading into top surgery, I worried a lot. There were questions I could not answer and timelines I could not anticipate. How long will it take? What will I feel like when I wake up? Will I get to see it? Most of my concerns boiled down to one thing — uncertainty.
Now, the opposite of uncertainty is not faith, but certainty. But alas, this serene and imperturbable state is frustratingly elusive, sometimes impossible. Belief was my next best (and maybe only other) option.
And so, I did. I believed that my procedure would go smoothly, unless or until it did not. (It did, thankfully.) I believed that I would be strong enough to both handle the demands of healing and graciously accept the support of those around me. I believed that even when I could no longer predict and plan, my journey would continue to unfold in a way that spelled progress.
Truthfully, none of this came very naturally to me. My empiricist’s brain kept running worry like a background program, and faith only blocked around half of my psyche’s anxiety popups. Nonetheless, I tried.
I had read not to expect any particular emotions coming out of surgery. For some, relief is immediate. For others, fatigue or physical pain might command attention. On the day, I found myself exhausted, happy, and, somewhat vexingly, still uncertain.
Swaddled in a chest binder and bandages, I was told that it would be nearly a week until I could see my chest. Logically, I could accept this. It wouldn’t really be that appealing to see the stitches, drains, and other accouterments that would get removed at my first post-operative appointment anyway. And yet, this also felt like asking me to renew my fledgling faith all over again. It was over. I’d done the thing. But I — literally — couldn’t see it.
This is why, walking into my post-op visit, I felt a little like Thomas. It wasn’t that I doubted that my chest was truly flat. (It certainly hurt enough to confirm that something had happened.) It was that, after months of waiting, weeks of worrying, and days of wondering, I wanted some semblance of an interactive outcome. Something I could engage with, see, and touch.
So, while I am not usually one for “magic moments,” I was undeniably moved as the nurse helped me to unwrap my binder for the first time. There is something powerful about belief, but there’s also something powerful about proof and proximity. Putting your hands on prayers answered. Tracing the scars of transformation and feeling the wounds closing that make one whole.
About the Author
Keely Miyamoto is a second-year at Grinnell College. Keely’s passion for peer support led them to become a founding member of the Be-A-Friend Project’s Teen Kindness Board. They have also volunteered on the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, as well as with Grinnell’s student-run SA/DV hotline. Keely identifies as transgender and nonbinary, and, as a collegiate student-athlete, they are especially invested in representation and inclusion in sports
