The hernia happened on a Tuesday in July.
I was at our RiNo project site, a mixed-use redevelopment we were converting from an old warehouse. I’d always been hands-on, even after stepping into the CEO role. I liked being around the crews. Liked knowing what was happening with my projects firsthand.
That day, we were short-staffed. I grabbed one end of a steel I-beam to help move it.
Stupid. Reckless. A fifty-four-year-old desk jockey trying to prove he could still hang.
The pain was immediate. Sharp. Radiating low in my abdomen and down toward my groin.
I knew exactly what it was. I’d watched my father deal with the same thing years ago.
That night at dinner, I mentioned it casually. We were standing at the kitchen island, Mia up in Boulder for summer classes. Nicole was scrolling on her phone.
“I think I pulled something today,” I said. “Pretty sure it’s a hernia.”
Nicole’s head snapped up.
“A hernia?”
Her voice had an edge to it I couldn’t place. Not fear. Not concern. Something tighter.
“And you need to get that checked. Soon.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “I’ll see how it feels.”
She set her phone down. Face up.
“Hernias don’t just go away,” she said. “They can get dangerous.”
I blinked. “Nicole, I just told you about it.”
She was already opening her laptop.
“There’s a surgeon,” she said. “Dr. Julian Mercer. Presbyterian St. Luke’s. Five-star reviews. Best in Denver.”
She turned the screen toward me.
His photo stared back. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. The kind of confidence that comes from being very good at what you do.
“You already looked him up,” I said.
“I’m being proactive,” she replied quickly. “You work too hard. Someone has to take care of you.”
It should have felt loving.
Instead, something cold settled in my gut.
I smiled anyway. Nodded. Agreed to call in the morning.
Nicole smiled back. Relief softening her face in a way I didn’t understand at the time.
“Good,” she said. “I just want you to be okay.”
That was the moment everything was set in motion.
I just didn’t know it yet.
September 15th, 2024.
The last day I trusted my wife.
The sun rose over the Rockies, painting the mountains orange through our bedroom window. Nicole made coffee I couldn’t drink, insisting it was “just to smell.” She held my hand during the drive down Colorado Boulevard to UCHealth University Hospital, squeezing it at every stoplight.
“You nervous?” she asked.
“It’s outpatient surgery,” I said. “I’ll be home by lunch.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
In pre-op, Dr. Julian Mercer introduced himself. Younger than I expected. Expensive watch. Calm, efficient demeanor.
He barely looked at me.
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