They're in a hurry so there's no time for the goodbye we want, only a quick peck on the lips and saying, "I love you."
My bed rolls down white and grey, antiseptic, cluttered halls turning and twisting into the belly of the Hospital.
When we stop, my bed's laying beside another which I'm told to slide on which is difficult with the IV's, tubes and the damn Hospital gown. When I finish, I stare at a ceiling of white lights in blue casings giving me the impression I'm on a set for Star Wars.
Nurses and Anesthesiologists hover above my head obstructing my view.
It ends here.
I'm dead to the world.
For ten hours they cut me open, take out pieces of my original plumbing, reconstruct everything so it's efficient, tie it all together with a vein from my leg and staple me shut.
They also take out virtually all of the cancer.
I have no idea.
I'm still dead to the world.
When my eyes open I'm in a large open room with patients in other beds nearby. Sarah stands beside me.
"Let's not fight anymore," I say in a hoarse sleepy voice.
The day before surgery, we'd grown short with each other, because of the tension of the roller coaster ride of cancer we've been riding. In a waiting room preparing for yet another scan, I'm texting rather than listening and miss a great deal of what Sarah was saying. It wasn't my finest moment, trying to care for others, when it was just she and I who needed the caring.
"Don't be such an ass," she replies, though I'm dead to the world again and don't hear a word.
Earlier Doctor Sinkowski brought my wife to me and explaining things, he reaches out and tenderly plays with my foot, endearing himself to Sarah.
When I rise from the dead again, Sarah's gone and I stare at the staples, tubes, monitors and wires that are part of who I am now.
I'm alive.
Going into the surgery I wondered if I'd survive.
I wonder what Lazarus thought when Jesus raised him from the dead.
Was he as tired and thirsty as I am?
Sarah returns sometimes during the night or day, I have no idea which, and she tells me everything that happened while I was gone.
"They got virtually all the cancer", she reports. "There's some spots still on your liver."
I take it as information and file it away somewhere, focusing on Sarah's hand I'm holding on to.
I'd worried I'd never be able to do it again and now, in spite of the staples, tubes, monitors and wires, it's all I care about.
The Bible's pretty mum on Lazarus after Jesus calls him out of the tomb.
A little while later they attend a dinner together but the powers that be are angry because Lazarus is now a celebrity who's endorsing Jesus politically.
The only other thing we know is he eventually dies again ... this time without any divine intervention.
The thing about being raised from the dead, either physically or metaphorically, is it's a process.
Waking up is only the beginning.
What I do now is what matters most.
I'm no longer what I was but have a new life to master.
What's funny about the business of healing is I really do have to go into a tomb of sorts to do it..
It's hard work and I only have so much energy these days so I give it to sucking all the life I can out of the enjoyable moments with Sarah, Maddie, Laurel, Cassidy and Che! Friends let us know they're thinking of us and it adds fuel to the healing, which is not to say it happens any quicker.
My days now are walking as much as I can, eating what I'm able, managing exhaustion and wondering what to do about the cancer that's left.
I'm in no hurry to figure it out.
Che lays beside me on the sofa, repeatedly kissing my hand, arm and face.
The girls immediately try to address my every discomfort.
And Sarah and I hold hands every chance we get.
