Surgery is lonely.

Recovery from surgery is lonely, even when you're not alone. Even when you're supported.
We ultimately experience our bodies intimately only within ourselves. It effects our lives, and turns each path in unique ways, nobody else can know.

I woke up to a diagnosis of Endometriosis. Waking up and being told you have a disease that at least 1 in 10, or 176 million women worldwide have, is lonely, regardless of the impressive numbers.

Endometriosis does not have a cure, and all available options for treatment comes with its own set of troubles.

I was expecting surgery to remove an overgrown cyst. I had concerns it could be ovarian cancer, since I was experiencing every symptom of it, so strangely I was braced for that. Deep down, I hoped it would be nothing, and that the surgery would have been much ado about nothing.

After surgery, my doctor came into my room and showed me pictures of severe adhesions he basically had to bushwhack through within my torso. I was still groggy from anesthesia when he talked to me, so there are details to catch up on, but one of the things he emphasized through my anesthesia induced bliss was that my abdomen is really tough. And I thought..."Yeah! I'm tough! Go me!" Maybe he could see I wasn't entirely displeased with his statement, because then he said, "No, by tough I mean that it's filled with scar tissue and adhesions, and I really had to cut away a lot."
And, he wasn't exactly high-fiving me, and smiling about it.

The other thing my doctor said, that I clearly remember, was..."So, this is not all in your head."

But this recovery is taking a toll everywhere, inside and out. Including, my head.

I'm trying to be all soulful and lovely about recovery, but right now I'm just not.
I don't know yet what this new information means for my body, mind, and soul.

There's more I want to say about it, but I'm embarrassed and ashamed of how I really feel.

I don't feel good. I'm still exhausted and hurting. These are the places I'm so adept at disappearing. I am mostly silent when it comes to pain. It's easier to make light of it.  Then, feel deeply abandoned when people don't show up. I don't feel up to company, but long for simple "Facebook care." It's the silliest things that can bring on a crash in this "civilized" world.

I'm still figuring a lot of stuff out. Instead of letting silence run away with me, I'm holding on to what, and who, lends their voice. Love and care are healers. It's when you're low the darkness tries to take charge of conditions to convince you there is none, and that you're worthless.

The darkness can make a difficult day draw out long and cold.
I have to remind myself that 4 days of health are often experienced differently than 4 days of pain and recovery, and that it's only been 4 days since I went under. It's especially important to stop and smell the roses when things hurt. It's important to keep in mind this is my journey, and others are on theirs. Paths do not always cross, nor are they meant to. We are still experiencing this kingdom together.

Recovery is a great time to challenge perceptions, test reality, discover the holes in your support system, rest, repair, and dive in to deeper wants and needs. Transformation can work up a sweat, even on the brightest days.

I'm trying to sort out a new diagnosis, the ongoing pain I've been living with long-term, the surgical pain (is one of my incisions infected? Maybe...I don't know.), my belly inflated like a half blown up beach ball,  confusing hormones, and taking care of myself and my family in the moment, as we approach new phases of life in the midst of additional unknowns.

My youngest daughter starts Kindergarten in August, and I have approximately 6 weeks until I am slated to carry on with my college education at KU...a dream I've been working for 16 years.

It's hard to keep a grip on the present moment, and not see my life, and dreams, crumbling. They've crumbled so many times before, and I really need all the positive energy I can find, or have laid upon me, to keep my head above water, and my boots on the trail.

It's easy to feel like a failure at everything in the middle of this process.

I woke up, but I'm still on my way back, running for the hills.

I'm hopeful that in a week to 10 days I can come back with a completely renewed perspective, but it could be longer.    The pressure I put on myself to be in full swing is the worst, and I'm working to let that go.