What I’m Still Learning About Gratitude, Four Years Post-Surgery

It’s been four years since my excision surgery.

A true reflection, which is ideally done as honestly as possible, shows a very full picture. Honoring not just what I was grateful for, but also what felt like too much, too unfair, too soon.

I was young. Scared. Walking a path my big sister had already paved, which took a lot of the guesswork out of pursuing an endometriosis diagnosis. For that, I was luckier than most. (Check one for the gratitude list.) Unfortunately familiarity did not minimize the fear that came along with it. The fear of chronic pain, or being brushed off by doctors, or that this surgery might not fix anything. Certainly not the fear of falling behind in life while other kids my age seemingly enjoyed college.

That’s where the gratitude got complicated.

I was very grateful for family and understanding employers and a big sister who coached me along, put this feeling here, go to this doctor next, three deep breaths when the next wave hits. 

I looked around. Among many blessings counted, I also found a lot of things to be very ungrateful for. I saw the people my age that were doing things I wanted to, but couldn’t quite keep up with. Taking their bodies and health for granted. Who cares that my body is fighting for me—who cares that this is a test of strength—aren’t I missing out? Why am I not like them? Why do I get a hard lesson, and what have I done to deserve it?

Post-op felt like things got worse before better, (I vaguely remember my mother comparing my excision spots to a gunshot wound) but at least I finally had an official diagnosis. I was so glad for the movement forward into whatever came next, that I also got impatient and somewhat bitter when it didn’t happen quickly enough. 

The amount of waiting needed in a season of healing is hardest because you are often left with nothing else to do but ponder. You wonder how you ended up where you are. You try to think of the day that you first felt a symptom and if you were even aware of it. Attempt to map out how quickly it proceeded to spiral after that.

Perhaps my favorite one to obsess over: Even if the surgery has worked, can’t it just come back again?

Then time passes, you start forgetting things. Sometimes this is good—there are many things you are glad to forget. There are also things you can’t forget, and things you want to forget but know deep down are better to hold onto anyway, now that it’s carved out some piece of your heart. 

And a new balance is found after enough time, a new routine, and the normalcy makes it easy to be neither grateful nor ungrateful—just more concerned about staying afloat.

I think of the fleetingness of gratitude a lot like waking up with a stuffy nose. Whenever this happens, I quickly become very bitter that my ability to breath has been taken from me. I vow to never take the ability for granted again if it would just return already. And when it finally does—I am very grateful. For a day, maybe even two. And then it slowly slips further down the gratitude list, and breathing becomes normal again—expected, even. Then I stop remembering to be grateful for it at all. It makes the list no more. 

I feel incredibly uncomfortable every time I find myself taking for granted the no pain days, which are much more common now then they were four years ago. I also feel uncomfortable on the days that I think about it too long—and thus begin anticipating the inevitable other-dropping-shoe. 

So: I make my lists. The things I appreciate about the now. The things I can appreciate more about the bad times because they are being viewed in the rearview. The things I swear to remember forever, lest the bad feeling returns (but because I am human, I am more likely to forget anyway.)

I think it is a strange balance to find—wanting to honor the pain and the feeling and the memory, without becoming lost in it. To remember to be grateful every day that the season is viewed in hindsight without forgetting that seasons come and go and return again. 

Healing is always bittersweet. You are grateful to be getting better. You are less grateful that the bad thing happened. You are keenly aware that wounds can reopen much more quickly than they close.

Four years later, I’m still learning what a balance gratitude really is. It’s not just about being thankful when things go right. It’s about noticing what’s changed, honoring what still hurts, and making room for moments when that grateful attitude of yours slips up. 

I won’t pretend this journey made me endlessly grateful for every part of it. But If you’re in the middle of it—waiting, hurting, hoping—know that I see you.

There’s no right way to feel. Gratitude might come in pieces. Or not at all for a while. Perhaps it is not about tallying up the good and the bad parts, but instead looking back and saying, ‘that version of me endured, so this version of me could exist.’ And there is something very, very special about that.