“I am going to meet Oprah,” I whispered.

“Isn’t that great,” the nurse replied with practiced patience.

Saying these words filled me with a sense of overwhelm, honouring the secret they had been for so long. Conviction came, then clarity, and finally, a powerful sense of relief.

We all smiled, each of us knowing. In that moment I felt as though I was floating above the mere mortals. It is it great to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth.

But what goes up must come down. The euphoria weaning to give space for the confusion. Had I told just the one of them, or all of them? Were they delighted for me, or did they begrudge me? Would they tell the whole place? Would they understand the need for privacy, or would they want to ask me questions? What would I say?

They were all smiling and laughing— or perhaps it was just jealous they were. Who could blame them? Going about their day with the sameness of the day before and the day after that.

Knowing is a kind of a sense. You feel it in the present, see it in the distance, hear it all the time. It kills the worry and brings a calmness. You never tell on it. It is always there when nothing else is. You must trust it. It delivers when you do.

The outcome lies clear as day, laid out in all its glory. The absolute sense of assuredness in the path. When you know, you know.

The writer sat for many years in this place of knowing. Confiding in spiritual types with no need for worry, they always understood. The knowing won’t ever go away of its own accord, knowing alone is not enough, action has to follow and then the knowing will do its work.

For a small surgical procedure, the anaesthetic was powerful.

On the way back down, it all sort of came out—not intentional or premeditated, just a force of nature. They didn’t bat an eyelid. They said they hear all sorts in the recovery room—wild and wonderful— you could write a book on it.

So, when you see me sit on Oprah’s couch, remember you heard it here first.

They don’t lock you up for knowing these days.