You never know who you'll meet along the way

Handling life's little hiccups with grace is not one of my strong points. I can admit it.
My first reaction to everything that goes wrong, big or small, is to have a mini-freakout. I'm pretty sure the freakout is all in my head, because usually people remark about my ability to handle things calmly and professionally. I guess I have everyone fooled. The mini-freakout lasts for only a few moments but it's one of the things I'm working on changing about myself. I'd like my initial reaction to be, "I am capable of handling this" but it's usually something more like, "JFC!!" or "WTF?!" or "RUFKM?!"
Truth be told, one of my better traits is that I'm good at making a back-up plan. But what does that say about me? That I'm efficient and organized? Or that I lack confidence in my ability to execute Plan A?
The latest in life's string of hiccups is that I have a minor yet urgent health issue that requires exploratory abdominal surgery. Thousands of dollars in various medical tests so far have not yielded any conclusive results so here I am waiting for my pre-op anesthesia appointment for the surgery. I need to have this surgery before my health insurance ends in a month because my husband just got laid off. That's right, laid off.
Insert mini-freakout here.
As I wait for the doctor, the nurse draws a few vials of blood and then who should stroll in but the same anesthesiologist who had gone to extremes caring for me during my month-long hospitalization 8 years ago. One look at my name and his jaw drops open. I grin and feel ridiculous and proud all in the same instant, as he glances at me trying to identify some semblance of the person he remembers: a pale and swollen young woman in ICU with a collapsed lung, an emergency c-section, and a lung surgery three days later (in which the surgeon describes the fun of smoothing the chest wall with a surgical Brillo pad). Throw in a few decorations such as fetal monitors/chest tubes/IVs and an extra 60 lbs. The anesthesiologist repeats my name out loud and just starts spitting out long-lost details that I'd since forgotten (or purposely erased from my being): how I hated ABGs, what doctors I thought were jerks, which nurses I loved, how my health insurance payments practically paid for the new maternity wing....
That I've come through the whole lung incident in such a fantastically hearty way still amazes me. I'm a far cry from the pathetic looking soul they remember. The anesthesiologist reviews my chart again and notes that I have a 40th birthday coming up soon and asks if I am doing anything special to celebrate? As a matter of fact, I am.
We talk about Nepal and Everest Base Camp and the effect of altitude on the lungs. We talk about the timing of the surgery so close to my trip departure date and my husband's job loss in the middle of all of it. The anesthesiologist reminds me these things are all just little setbacks on the road of life. A case of the hiccups. No reason for a Plan B.
He reinforces what what I've been trying to tell myself all along: there will never be the perfect time to do this trip. There will always be some reason NOT to do it. He shares the story of finishing his residency, stressed out and in debt, taking his wife and kids to live in Paris for a few months. Some of his kids immediately loved it, but some did not. But the resulting personal, educational, financial, and social impact it had on the children as they grew older was immeasurable. He believes it's one of the best decisions he ever made, to put aside professional and financial concerns to do something daring and impractical.
Before leaving, he reminds me one more time that one of the best parts about taking this trip is the example I'm setting for my kids: choosing a meaningful goal and working towards it.
Thanks Dr. Powell, I'm glad our paths have crossed again.