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.