February 9, 2016
Sometimes, we become so absorbed in our own struggles that we forget just how vast and varied human suffering truly is. In the days leading up to Christmas 2015, I found myself in that very place, overwhelmed by pain, frustration, and a gnawing sense of helplessness that seemed to shadow every thought.
What began as a stubborn, nagging stomach ache quickly escalated into five relentless days of discomfort and prolong hospital admission. Painkillers dulled the sharp edges, but never completely erased the constant agonizing pain. Each passing hour felt longer, each movement heavier.
Eventually, the doctors delivered the news: surgery was necessary. “It’s not life-threatening,” they assured me. “You can live without this organ.” Yet, even as reason tried to soothe my fears, the thought of going under the knife stirred an overwhelming sense of unease, a quiet anxiety that whispered with every heartbeat.
As I lay on the operating table, a doctor asked, “Are you ready, Sir?” I nodded nervously. Then came the syringe, and then, darkness.
From total darkness, I woke up in a place I never expected to be.
I found myself walking through a garden of quiet beauty, lush and serene, where the air felt soft and alive. The greenery stretched in every direction, bathed in a gentle light that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Beside me walked a kind, fatherly presence dressed in flowing white robes. There was something deeply comforting about him. We spoke softly as we walked, our conversation calm and unhurried, as though time itself had slowed down.
I felt an overwhelming sense of love and closeness, the kind that is difficult to explain. It felt as if I had known him forever, like meeting someone who had always been part of my life even though I could not remember when we first met. There was no fear, no confusion, only peace.
Eventually we came upon a wooden bench beneath the shade of a large tree. We sat there together, continuing our quiet conversation. Though I cannot now recall the words we shared, I remember the feeling vividly: a profound warmth, an indescribable love that filled the space around us.
Then suddenly, a loud voice broke through the stillness.
It called my name.
In that instant, everything faded, the garden, the tree, the bench, and even the gentle presence beside me. The details of our conversation vanished from my memory like mist dissolving in the morning sun. All that remained was the deep sensation of love that lingered in my heart.
The voice called again:
“Wake up, Sir Ulysses.”
I opened my eyes to a recovery room buzzing with activity. Pain pulsed through my body, but something inside me had shifted. That brief vision, whether a dream or something more, gave me a sense of calm I couldn’t explain.
Later, as I rested in my hospital bed, I caught a news segment about the war in Syria. The story focused on a man who had lost everything, his home, his family, his sense of safety. He stood among the ruins, battered, broken, yet quietly composed. Then he spoke a prayer that shook me to my core: he asked God for the gift of death.
There was no anger in his voice, no trace of bitterness. Only exhaustion. And yet, even in that unbearable moment, he clung to faith.
His words humbled me completely. Here I was, complaining about the discomfort of surgery, the dull ache of recovery, while this man had faced the collapse of his entire world. And still, he found the strength to remain calm, to pray, to exist with dignity.
It struck me then how easily we take life for granted, how often we fixate on what we fear, what we lack, what has been taken from us, instead of seeing what remains. My pain was real, yes, but temporary. I had family, shelter, love. I had another chance at life, another chance to be grateful.
Those days before Christmas reminded me of some profound truths:
In the harshest fates, some are left praying for the end, while many of us worry about losing life, clinging desperately to every fragment of time we can hold.
This life is a gift from God, a fragile, beautiful gift that’s far too easy to overlook.
And I will never forget that garden, nor that man in the rubble.
Both reminded me that even in suffering, there is something sacred: the strength to keep moving forward, the grace to be thankful, and the faith to trust that even in darkness, light will always find a way in.
"God give us a gift of life and it us up to us to give ourselves a gift of living well." - Voltaire
© 2026 ET PLUS . articles . All Rights Reserved | My Days, My Stories