"If we do nothing, you will die tonight," the doctor told me. "Even if we operate, your chances of surviving are not very good. Is there someone you can call? Would you like to see a priest?"

That was 12 years ago this weekend: the night of Friday, Feb. 11, 2000.

At this time of year, with Valentine's Day upon us, the thoughts of most will turn to romantic love. For me, this time will forever be about a medical ordeal - and the healing love subsequently shared with family and close friends.

I was working as director of public affairs at an international trade association in Washington, D.C. For quite a while, I had been feeling an incredible pain in my chest and left arm. I called my friend and doctor. He said that, while it was probably nothing, I had better go to the hospital just to make sure.

Thinking it could be a long night, I took Atticus, a 10-year-old golden retriever and my inseparable best friend, for a walk, filled his water bowl and headed for George Washington University Hospital - where, coincidently, I had been born.

Since undergoing heart surgery at age 4, I had had a lifetime of hospitals and tests, so nothing that came next was a surprise. EKGs and X-rays proved inconclusive, but my doctor wanted to give me a CT scan to make sure. Some time later, he gave me the news: "You have an aortic aneurysm."

I had no idea what that meant. I asked what my options were and was told there weren't any. The repairs to a small boy's heart could last only so long inside a grown man's body before giving way.

The priest who came to my bedside in the emergency room was a woman. She and I said the Lord's Prayer together, and then she rubbed something on my forehead and recited another prayer I had never heard. As the hospital assembled the best surgical team it had, I made calls to friends and family. I called to cancel a Monday morning meeting - and to make sure someone would look after my canine pal.

It took all night to put the team together, so I had plenty of time to think. Sure, I was scared. But more than that, I felt regret. I was 36 years old, and my life was about to end abruptly. I had squandered what little time I had by not loving enough, by not working hard enough, not fighting hard enough for the things I truly believed in. I had forsaken conviction for cash. I had let myself down. And now I felt very much alone.

Surgeons at GW Hospital typically perform two heart bypasses a day. They do two aortic aneurysm operations a year. I am told the diagnosis is usually made in the morgue.

As dawn broke, I was briefly awakened so that my mom and dad, who had flown in from New York, could assure me I would be fine. I would physically struggle through nine hours of surgery, but I am sure the wait and the uncertainty for them must have been excruciating. But for the whole nine hours, they were joined and supported by friends, family, colleagues and neighbors.

Finally, the doctor came out of surgery, drenched in sweat and covered with blood.

"If your son lives," he told my parents, "he may never walk or talk again."

An aortic aneurysm is essentially a swelling and stretching of the vital vessel that provides blood to the rest of your body. If it ruptures, you die. They usually burst at 10 centimeters - mine was 11. During the surgery, the patient's body temperature is lowered to a level of deep hypothermia, stopping the heart, brain and lungs from working. During my surgery, I was frozen for more than 40 minutes while a machine performed those functions for me.

In the restless and uncertain hours after the surgery, a doctor told a close friend that he was astonished I had survived the surgery itself, and that recovery would be a long process. After five throat surgeries to help a paralyzed vocal chord and many hours of voice therapy, I still often have the gravelly and slurred speech of a guy on the tail-end of long bachelor party weekend. After many years of physical therapy, I still walk like the old man I hope to become.

I was in intensive care for eight days. After what was to become the first of five throat surgeries, I was able to eat, and things progressed quickly. Soon they moved me to a private room - which, I later learned, is where they also put crazy people who fire gunshots at the White House. I prefer to think of it as the VIP Suite.

I got kind of crazy myself, they say. At one point, I became convinced that the doctors were trying kill me and I tried to make a run for it. I didn't get far, of course. After being physically restrained, I quickly gave up and gave in. That was the day, I'm told, when I began to get better.

I knew I was not alone. From the moment I handed my fate over to God, I became a more devout Episcopalian and found a new family of friends in church.

Almost three years after my aneurysm, my father had a stroke that would ultimately take his life. Friends from St. Alban's were at his bedside almost 24/7, praying for him and caring for my sister and me. Clergy arrived quietly in the middle of the night.

We held a memorial service at his retirement home. Along with the captive audience of fellow residents, there were colleagues from work, members of my new church family, and that loyal band of brothers who had rallied for me in those dire February weeks of 2000. I felt very much loved.

In the grimmest moments of life, I had learned, loving friends can bring light to darkness. From sadness can come great joy.

Chris Larsen lives in Southern Pines. Contact him at cdlars42@gmail.com.