woman in black tank top and black leggings sitting on floor
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My stay in the hospital last Friday extended three times past what we expected. The four-hour drive to Fort Wayne, Indiana wasn’t half bad compared to the nine hours I spent on my back in the hospital bed. 

The day before my surgery was a blur. I resigned from my fifth and final year of teaching and now call myself a full-time author. I haven’t had time to process this, but in due time, I know I will. 

Beyond writing and teaching, I wonder if I may not know who I am. Maybe my identity has been too closely tied to my job and future career aspirations. Maybe my identity has been more aligned with what’s wrong with me than what’s right. Because if I’m not a teacher or author, or someone with anxiety and depression, then who am I?

Half the battle is fighting fatigue from the procedure. I’m still not all the way “with it,” but think I’m thinking clearly enough to write. Stage 2 Excision of Endometriosis isn’t for the faint of heart. The four neatly sewed stitches across my abdomen can testify to that. During my stay Friday evening, an IV transferred numerous drugs into my bloodstream. 

After the anxiety medication and muscle relaxers, my memory fades. I was telling my husband I loved him, and then I was waking up to pain searing through my small frame. It took the medical staff four hours to get the nausea and agony I experienced under control. Yet, I would call myself blessed.