Since July 1st, the day I went to the emergency room, I’ve been turned inward: a turtle with head, legs, and tail tucked inside. At first this was self-protection from the shocks caused by disease and then by the efforts to keep me alive.

Later it was a response to severe disorientation brought on by being suddenly thrust into vulnerability, having my body managed by others. Blood draws. Pills. IV insertions. How quickly I became dependent. Lost agency.

Don’t get me wrong. These were necessary, even life-saving interventions. I’m deeply grateful to be here, able to write. Even so the sudden turn into patient, into bystander rocked my world. How quickly I adapted, gave in. That frightened me. Is this all it takes to lose my identity?

Twenty-three  days later, I’m on my way back. Yet I now need a walker, sometimes a wheelchair. The last three showers I’ve had a staff member doing much of the work. I’m contemplating a move to assisted living.

My sense of self has undergone a major transition. Independence is no longer a primary driver. Rather a focus now: my identity as a reader, a writer, a man of the arts. Less struggle with reality, more attention to core parts of who I am. Continuing and strengthening each precious relationship. Living for wonder, for awe. For a tactile spirituality.

I go home, not this weekend, but next Tuesday. Melissa will be there in the afternoon, ready to cook. Shadow will be there. Mary and Joseph, too. I’ll take a while to see how this feels from Shadow Mountain. I’ll decide my future later.