If you listen to me on the radio or read what I write, it might feel like you know me.

You probably don’t.

I’m introverted when it comes to my personal life. I’ll talk about music, food, whiskey, community stories. I don’t usually talk about my health. I don’t often open that door.

So this feels different.

I recently checked into the hospital for robotic colorectal surgery to fix diverticulitis that had finally pushed past the “manage it” stage.

The first person I met that morning was Renée from Jamaica.

She started everything. The IVs. The prep. The quiet checklist before surgery becomes real. If you’ve ever been there, you know the feeling. Bright room. Thin gown. Thoughts moving a little too fast.

Renée was steady. Warm. She talked me through each step as she placed the IV and prepared me for surgery. The person who inserts the IV might not be the one operating, but they become the first voice you associate with the whole experience.

In that moment, I realized something I hadn’t expected. In a hospital room in Rapid City, the world was showing up.

Dr. Donahue performed the surgery. It was robotic, which I found fascinating. There’s something reassuring about knowing a surgeon is guiding robotic instruments with precision. If I was going to do this, I might as well add “worked on by a robot” to the story.

Dr. Huot, the anesthesiologist, brought a different kind of calm into the room. Upbeat. Personable. He genuinely seems to enjoy what he does. He talked with me, not at me. Smiling. Explaining things clearly. When someone is about to put you to sleep and take over your breathing, that energy matters.

And if you ever want to see that personality outside the operating room, follow him on TikTok. He’ll most definitely point out his messy hair.

The procedure went exactly how you hope it does.

What stayed with me most happened afterward.

Meet Felix

In recovery, I met Felix from Ghana. He’s been at Monument Health since December. He moved here with his wife and two kids. New country. First South Dakota winter.

When I asked why he became a nurse, his answer was simple.

“In Africa, if you’re the oldest, you end up taking care of a lot of brothers and sisters.”

That was him. The oldest.

His uncle noticed and told him he would make a good nurse. That was it. A small moment that shaped a life. Years later, it brought him to Rapid City, checking my vitals.

It didn’t start with ambition. It started with responsibility.

The Bigger Story Behind the Bedside

These conversations sit inside a larger national reality.

According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, the country will need roughly 190,000 to 195,000 registered nurses every year through 2033. That includes new jobs and replacements for nurses retiring or leaving the profession.

Many are retiring. The workforce is aging. Hospitals feel that shift.

At the same time, nursing schools still turn away thousands of qualified applicants each year because of faculty shortages and limited clinical space.

Here in South Dakota, projections show the state could be short nearly 2,000 registered nurses by the end of the decade if trends continue. Rural communities feel that pressure most.

That reality is why nurses like Renée from Jamaica, Felix from Ghana, Karyn from Zimbabwe, and Fatma from Turkey are so essential. They are not a side note. In many communities, they are the reason care continues without interruption.

A Small Moment of Perspective

Felix also pointed out something most of us think about while wearing a hospital bracelet.

Healthcare here is expensive. Compared to parts of Africa or the UK’s public system, the difference is noticeable.

He said it gently. I told him I was choosing to focus on the robot and not the invoice.

We both laughed.

Diverticulitis Brought Me Here. Something Else Is Leaving With Me.

Recovery slows you down.

You lie there. Machines hum. Footsteps pass. And someone from halfway across the world checks your incision and asks how you’re feeling.

People who didn’t grow up dreaming of Rapid City, South Dakota, now helping my body heal in it.

Their stories crossed oceans before they crossed my path.

When you’re the patient, you’re vulnerable. You depend on strangers. Then you realize those strangers have crossed borders, left family, and started over.

I came here to fix a problem.

I’m leaving reminded how much we depend on each other.