September 15, 2026 - Day 3 - My Birthday X2

Today is my birthday.

But it is also something more.

Today is the anniversary of the day I moved from the ICU into a regular hospital room.

I hold this day very dearly in my heart because, for me, it marks the moment I went from super critical to something more like:

Okay… maybe she is going to be all right.

That is a pretty big birthday present.

For the past three years, I have celebrated this day in different ways.

The first year, I went to a Broncos game. I had never been to a real NFL game before, and I LOVE the Broncos, so it was absolutely perfect.

The second year, I spent my birthday with my patients.

That year, I wanted to give something back to people who were going through some of the same fear, pain, uncertainty, and loneliness I had experienced. If I could bring somebody even a little joy while they were in the hospital, that felt like a pretty wonderful way to celebrate being alive.

This year?

I kept it simple.

And honestly, simple felt really good.

I woke up to so many beautiful “Happy Birthday” messages, which immediately made me feel loved.

I had been too tired to watch the Broncos game the night before, so I warmed up some pizza, grabbed a Pepsi, settled in, and watched it.

Unfortunately, the Broncos apparently forgot they were also supposed to participate.

They were thoroughly spanked.

It happens.

At least the pizza showed up.

I am newly back to work after my latest surgery, and I am still learning what my body is ready for.

Some days I am in a lot of pain.

Sometimes my mind starts playing tricks on me. I convince myself that my insides are moving around, something has come undone, or the surgery didn't work.

Fear is funny that way.

Once your body has betrayed your expectations enough times, every strange sensation can start sounding like an alarm.

But then there are other moments when I can reason through it.

I look at my stomach and realize how dramatically different it looks compared with the last three years—and honestly, even compared with many years before that.

I HAVE A FIGURE AGAIN.

My 26-year-old self might actually be jealous of my 48-year-old body.

HA!

Take that, youth.

Apparently, we still had a few surprises left in us.

So today has been wonderfully low-key.

I took care of my animals.

I watched football.

I ate warm chocolate lava cake.

And I spent some time dreaming about all the things that are still ahead of me.

That may be my favorite part of birthdays now.

Not counting the years behind me.

Looking at the ones still waiting.

I have never been someone who needed huge gifts or extravagant parties.

I am not a clubber, although I will admit that there was a time when I could go to the Grizzly Rose and dance all night.

I still love dancing.

My knees may eventually submit a formal complaint, but the spirit remains willing.

And don't misunderstand me—I like presents.

I am not going to stand here and pretend I am morally opposed to someone handing me a beautifully wrapped box.

I'm just saying it doesn't have to be anything big.

Give me something you made.

Write me a note.

Bring me a silly little thing because it reminded you of me.

Give me a dandelion.

Especially a dandelion.

Dandelions are my favorite flower.

I know some people look at them and see weeds.

I look at them and see sunshine.

There is something about them that has always brought me comfort. They seem to say:

Today is beautiful. Pay attention.

And really, dandelions are rather remarkable little things.

They have medicinal uses.

They can be eaten.

They can be made into tea.

Although, for the love of all things holy, read the box first.

Some dandelion teas are not meant to be casually consumed like a cozy little cup of Earl Grey unless you have cleared your schedule and developed a strong relationship with the nearest bathroom.

Consider that my public service announcement for the day.

Someday I am also going to make dandelion wine.

Because apparently surviving ten surgeries was not enough adventure.

But beyond all of that, I love what a dandelion becomes.

First, it gives us sunshine.

Then it closes into something that reminds me of moonlight.

And finally, it opens again and becomes a tiny universe of stars, waiting for the wind.

Sunshine.

Moonlight.

Stars.

All in one little flower that grows almost anywhere, survives almost anything, and keeps coming back.

Maybe that is why I love it so much.

Today I turned 48.

Today I also celebrate another year since I left the ICU and moved one step closer to going home.

I don't need a huge party to understand what that means.

I am here.

I am healing.

I am working.

I am dancing when I can.

I am taking care of my animals.

I am eating chocolate lava cake.

I am dreaming about what comes next.

And I am grateful.

So if you ever wonder what to give me—

just give me a dandelion.

I'll know exactly what it means.

September 11, 2026 - 9/11 - Remember

I was getting ready for work when I heard that a plane had hit the first tower.

Like so many people, I turned on the television and tried to understand what I was seeing. I listened for about an hour before I finally had to leave for work. I remember exactly where I was when everything changed for me. I was turning onto Parker Road from my neighborhood when I heard that a second plane had hit the other tower.

That was the moment I knew.

We were under attack.

I spent that day working at the bank. Very few customers came in, and those of us who were there moved through the day feeling raw, frightened, heartbroken, and unsure of what was coming next.

One phrase seemed to be everywhere:

United We Stand.

Twenty-five years later, I can still remember what those words felt like.

I will never forget.

A quarter of a century has passed, and our country—and honestly, our world—feels very different.

I love this country. That does not mean I believe it is perfect. There are plenty of things I would change if someone would just hand me the appropriate paperwork and perhaps a reasonably powerful magic wand. But loving something has never required believing it is flawless.

In fact, I think part of loving something is wanting it to become better.

One of the beautiful things about this country is that it can change. We, the people, have always been part of that process.

Our economy has changed. Technology has changed us. Communities have changed. Each generation looks at the problems it inherits and comes up with its own ideas about how to solve them. Sometimes those ideas are brilliant. Sometimes they are shortsighted. Sometimes older generations forget that the world young people inherited is not exactly the same world they grew up in. And sometimes younger generations forget there might actually be a reason Grandma keeps telling that same story for the 47th time.

She may know something.

Every generation has its quirks.

Mine certainly does.

I recognize enough of my own generation's nonsense to know I probably shouldn't stand on too tall of a soapbox pointing fingers at anybody else's.

What I wish we could recover is something much simpler: the ability to work together.

Not agree on everything.

Not think alike.

Not vote alike, worship alike, live alike, or solve problems exactly the same way.

Just recognize that the person standing across from us has value, too.

There was a time when helping your neighbor was simply what you did. Communities depended on one another. Families depended on one another. Sometimes survival literally depended on knowing that when things went sideways, somebody would show up.

Today, it can feel like we are surrounded by people and still somehow completely alone.

Families drift apart. Neighbors can live ten feet from one another and never learn each other's names. We communicate constantly, yet somehow meaningful connection can feel harder to find.

And I think we are poorer for it.

Which brings me, naturally, to the thing hanging out of my nose.

Yes.

My nose.

A couple of days ago, a friend looked at me and very kindly informed me that I had a little white "thing" hanging out of my nose.

You know the thing.

The thing nobody wants to tell you about.

The thing that immediately makes you wonder:

HOW LONG HAS THAT BEEN THERE?

Was it there five minutes?

An hour?

Did I have an entire conversation with someone while this thing waved at them every time I breathed?

How many people saw it and thought, Well... that's unfortunate, and then just carried on with their day?

I will never know.

But my friend told me.

And after the initial horror—and the immediate inspection of my face—I realized something.

I was grateful.

She did me a solid.

She cared enough to risk one mildly awkward moment so I wouldn't spend the rest of the day unknowingly walking around with a flag flying from my nostril.

That is love.

Not glamorous love.

Not greeting-card love.

Not the kind anyone writes poetry about.

But love nonetheless.

I am that person too. If your tag is hanging out, I'll tell you. If you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe, I'm coming after you. If your dress is tucked into your underwear, we are shutting down operations immediately.

I'm not telling you to embarrass you.

I'm telling you because I've got you.

I don't want you getting home eight hours later, looking in the mirror, and thinking, Dear Lord, how many people let me walk around like this?

Maybe we need more of that.

Not necessarily more people monitoring everyone's noses—although apparently some of us require supervision—but more people willing to say, I've got you.

And that requires something that seems increasingly difficult: looking beyond our differences long enough to see one another as human beings.

Different viewpoints aren't always threats. Sometimes they expose holes in our own thinking that we couldn't see from where we were standing.

When you can genuinely talk with someone who sees the world completely differently than you do—not because you are waiting for your turn to prove them wrong, but because you actually want to understand how they got there—you grow.

They might grow too.

Neither one of you may completely change your mind.

That's okay.

Growth doesn't always mean agreement.

Sometimes it simply means understanding the problem a little better than you did before.

If the only goal is winning the argument, nobody learns much. Nobody changes much. And solutions have a difficult time appearing when everybody is busy shouting from opposite sides of the room.

We stay stuck.

Much like that booger hanging out of my nose.

Right there.

For the whole world to see.

Waiting for somebody to care enough to say,

"Hey... I've got you."

Twenty-five years ago, the words were United We Stand.

Maybe unity today doesn't mean we suddenly agree about everything.

Maybe it starts much smaller.

Check on your neighbor.

Listen before answering.

Assume there might be something worth hearing.

Help when you can.

Respect the person even when you don't understand their position.

And, for the love of everything holy, if somebody has something hanging out of their nose—

tell them.

We need more people willing to look out for each other.

More people willing to say, I've got you.

Maybe that is one small way we learn how to stand together again.

September 1, 2026 - 3 years since D-Day , Red Dresses, Growing Pains, and Kicking @$$

Did you know September is Sepsis Awareness Month?

The colors are red and black.

Which means, apparently, September is also the month where I am going to spend a considerable amount of time looking like I am either raising awareness for sepsis or preparing to make a dramatic entrance into a vampire convention.

Honestly, probably a little of both.

My red dresses already tend to attract attention, and I will admit that attention makes me uncomfortable. I know that may sound strange coming from someone who wears vintage dresses, drives a purple Hellcat, and generally has no problem being a little extra—but there is a difference between expressing yourself and realizing people are actually LOOKING AT YOU.

Still, if wearing red and black gets someone to ask me why, and that gives me an opportunity to talk about sepsis, then I am willing to be uncomfortable.

This one matters too much.

September 1st was actually a really good day.

My mom spent the night with me because the night before had been full of craziness, and she felt like she needed to stay to make sure I was safe. That was more appreciated than I can probably put into words.

We spent the day working on things for the chicken coop, taking care of my dogs, talking, laughing, and just being together.

I am still healing from my latest surgery, but I am doing really well.

Next week, I go back to work.

Full red and black outfits.

Full force.

They have absolutely no idea what is coming.

My patients mean everything to me because I have been them.

I have been the person lying there hurting and feeling completely alone, even when people were standing right beside me, because nobody else can actually feel what is happening inside your body.

I have wondered whether my organs were going to fail.

I have dealt with blood pressure episodes that scared me because I knew my body was already working overtime.

I have had moments where something felt incredibly important to me medically, but unless I was actively crashing, it sometimes felt like it wasn’t important enough yet.

And that is a terrible feeling.

No one should feel invisible when they are sick.

But illness does weird things to us.

Surgery does weird things to us.

Medication does weird things to us.

Pain, fear, anesthesia, exhaustion, blood pressure, infection, sleep deprivation, and being completely dependent on other people can change the way we think, react, communicate, and solve even ordinary problems.

Sometimes you are simply not yourself.

Monday was thankfully not one of those days.

Monday was rest.

Monday was my mom.

Monday was chickens, dogs, projects, laughter, and a little piece of normal.

And right now, I desperately appreciate normal.

Because things are changing for me.

A lot of things.

I somehow feel scared, alone, excited, liberated, sad, hopeful, and completely overwhelmed all at the same time.

Which seems incredibly inefficient, but apparently my brain has decided we are going to experience the entire emotional buffet.

Growth is fun.

Said no one ever.

Growth is uncomfortable.

Growth makes you question everything.

Growth has made me randomly break into tears several times lately.

But I also know new things are coming.

And I know I will be stronger because of them.

It barely crossed my mind that it has now been three years since the surgery that changed my life.

But the truth is, that surgery wasn’t really the beginning.

It was the correction.

The problem had been happening for years.

I had been going to the ER every three to six months like clockwork because of my intestines. Something was wrong, and eventually it was going to kill me if it wasn’t addressed.

Thankfully, it was addressed.

Unfortunately, my body has the emotional maturity of an angry toddler when it comes to surgery.

It rebels.

Aggressively.

The surgery itself was supposed to fix the problem.

Twelve days later, I woke up and my entire life was different.

And now, three years later, it is somehow even more different.

Some of those differences have been incredibly painful.

Some have been beautiful.

Some I am still trying to understand.

Last year, I started writing about the 30 days I was missing.

I am still finishing those because, in true Marie fashion, another surgery came along and interrupted the schedule.

Apparently my internal organs do not respect editorial deadlines.

But I am finishing them.

And this year, during Sepsis Awareness Month, I am also going to concentrate on the 64 days that are worth mentioning.

The 64 days that changed everything.

So this is Day 1.

I am alive.

I am healing.

I am transitioning through a ridiculous number of things at once.

I am growing as a person, whether I volunteered for that growth or not.

Most days, I am okay.

Some days are hard.

Sometimes I feel very alone.

But somewhere along the way, I have also developed incredible friendships, found people who truly care about me, and discovered a purpose in my life that is bigger than any one person—including me.

I never imagined I would be here.

But I am.

And since I am here, I intend to do something with it.

My brain may currently be running in seventeen different directions while logic desperately chases behind it yelling, “WAIT FOR ME!”

Eventually, everything will straighten itself out.

Probably.

For today, though, just know this:

I am doing well.

I am healing.

I am getting my life straightened out.

I am growing.

There is more coming.

And next week, I am putting on my red and black, walking back into that hospital, loving my patients with everything I have, and kicking @$$.

Because I am still here.

And that deserves to mean something.