1.
The night I came home after my third surgery’s hospitalization held a darkness I’ll never forget.
After many months of being bedridden, I finally looked in the mirror to see my mangled body, as my husband propped me up. I was gazing at a stranger. My frame hunched forward and was an unrecognizable, emaciated shadow of my former self. My arms were pocked and bruised with hundreds of uninvited needles that delivered lifesaving antibiotics over the previous months, but also destroyed my veins and sanity in the process. But worst of all, my abdomen had become a landmine, covered in sutures and scars, and this newest war wound was a 12-inch incision that still bled and oozed, sprawling from above my dissented belly button down to my pubic bone.
Finally, I surveyed my dark eye sockets, gaunt face, deadened skin, and hair loss, and at once, I was so overwhelmed with dread that I almost vomited...
My God, how do I survive this?
Ever the English teacher I knew what I had become; I was Frankenstein’s wretch and Elie Wiesel at the end of Night—a hacked-up, half-dead stranger.
Between sepsis and the fallout from my disease and multiple surgeries, I could no longer bathe myself. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t care for our daughter. I could barely hold a pen to write. My pain was so bad, I lost my ability to form a coherent thought or even read my treasured books. I only existed to suffer, and I could feel the dark thoughts slipping in…
My God, I can’t survive this.
My body had become a battlefield. And I was slipping away.
2.
Yes, 2021 was the year I faced my own mortality in more ways than one. And every moment since than has been a certain kind of war—full of brutal moments and battles that only I know (but with many beautiful ones in between—because life is both).
As I write this, I can hardly believe the events of my own life. I can hardly believe I am still here. And I imagine it will take me many more years to come to terms with everything that happened.
I want to tell you I handled all of this with dignity, strength, and grace. But I didn’t. As grotesque as my scars and body were on the outside, the scars I carried on the inside were that much more troubling. For every suture, bruise, and wound my body bore, there was tenfold more on my insides.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to My Way Back to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.