The Devil
..in the details
My wife’s gynaecologist detected a cyst a few months ago. She did a sonography, but for confirmation, she asked us to get additional tests done. The blood reports were normal, but the cyst had grown to nine centimetres and, according to the gynaecologist, required surgery.
However, she suggested trying medicines for three months before removing it. She believed the medicine might help—but the chances were abysmally low.
In the months that followed, I researched different surgeries that could mean shorter hospital stays, since we had a young daughter. I found the best doctors in town and even in nearby cities.
I connected with friends who knew doctors. I contacted my insurance company and understood all the procedures.
I googled CT scans, MRI scans, and every other scan doctors usually recommend. My mind wanted to be prepared. It began picturing all kinds of scenarios—scenarios that sent chills down my body.
I thought about it so much that I even started dreaming about the dreaded surgery.
By the end of three months, I had identified the best hospital, the best doctors, spoken to my insurance company, and prepared myself fully for the surgery.
My parents had also agreed to take care of my daughter until my wife recovered.
At the end of my wife’s medication cycle, we visited the doctor. In the car, I kept assuring her that everything would be fine. In truth, I was trying to reassure myself more than her.
The doctor called her inside. Meanwhile, I kept walking up and down the corridor, phone in hand. I wanted to be ready—to inform the hospital and get it done with.
The gynaecologist ran a series of tests while I held my breath, my heart beating like it was running a marathon.
After forty-seven minutes, the doctor called me into her cabin.
My legs felt heavy as I waited for her to speak. She removed her glasses and said, “The cyst is now just 1.5 centimetres. I wasn’t expecting this. Your wife doesn’t need surgery anymore.”
I furrowed my brow and asked, “Are you sure?”
She smiled. “Yes. We’ll continue the medicine. That will be enough.”
The trembling in my legs stopped as I finally breathed out—after three long months.
“We suffer more in imagination than in reality,” Seneca once said.
That day, I realised how much I had suffered simply because I believed my destructive thoughts. Once believed, those thoughts grew to enormous proportions.
The mind’s default state is negative—it evolved that way to protect us. But it is often wrong. Its job is to generate thoughts. Some estimates suggest the mind produces sixty to eighty thousand thoughts a day.
Imagine what would happen if you believed every single one of them.
Think about what you choose to believe.
