I came home from the hospital two afternoons ago and have regarded my body in the mirror several times.

At the hospital, I could only see my new slashes by looking down at my belly while reclined in bed. The wounds were covered by dressings and large bandages. The lightest touch at the sites made me recoil and hold my breath. But I didn’t really know what they looked like to others.

I had a large ventral hernia repaired. It was most likely associated with my c-sections, but it didn’t become painfully apparent until a bout with violent coughing ripped it open. The bulge in the front of my abdomen was the size of a grapefruit. The surgeon felt it could be repaired laparoscopically, but I’d stay one night in the hospital for pain control. The recovery entailed a week of “no work” and six weeks of no lifting.

On Friday, December 30th, I reported to the hospital unwatered and unfed since midnight. I also reported with a period that arrived 4 days early. I was deeply unhappy about this and even googled what it meant for surgery. I told the nurse who prepped me who assured me it happened all the time and was no big deal. Mesh undies and giant hospital pads ahoy! I joked about my happy memories and love of the mesh. They reminded me of having my babies.

I kissed my husband goodbye. Surgery would start on time. They wheeled me to the OR. The next thing I remember was hearing voices in the recovery room. I couldn’t open my eyes and I couldn’t speak or move. My husband reports he was allowed to see me briefly because I was slow to wake up and in a lot of pain. He said he told me the surgeon gave photos of my insides to me and I said, “That’s weird.”

Even unconscious, I am totally smart. I remember nothing about it, but I do remember hearing they could not finish the surgery laparoscopically because my small intestine was adhered to the hole in my muscle. The surgeon had to make a vertical incision, so recovery would be longer. Also, he had to place two pieces of mesh in my body instead of the standard one per hernia.

I have no idea how much time passed. I was moved to the room where I would spend the night. My husband and my nurse, Justin, were waiting for me. These moments are still very fuzzy, but I began to emerge from the fog of general anesthesia. I didn’t feel much pain because I had pain medication delivered via IV. The nurse showed me how to control the doses by pushing a button. I could do that.

And then I remembered my period. I looked at the clock and realized about 6 hours had passed since I was prepped and taken to surgery. I felt for my mesh undies and pad that had been placed during my surgery prep. There was nothing. I called my husband over and told him that I needed to go to the bathroom and investigate. He and Justin helped me rotate my legs and sit up. I could tell it would be a long, awful, remarkably painful walk to the bathroom with my IV pole in tow. The two of them steadied me and held me up. I apologized for whatever was on the bed. They assured me, no worries. No worries. They’d take care of everything.

I got to the bathroom and they lowered me until I could sit. My legs were covered in new and dry blood. My abdomen felt like flaming knives were being plunged in and out and in and out. I started weeping. I have never felt more helpless, humiliated, and at the mercy of others. It’s a blessing it was my husband and Justin the nurse, who fetched a pile of hot washcloths for my husband to clean me. He also brought more mesh undies and pads.

My husband cleaned me, tenderly, whispering it was okay. Justin busied himself in the room and with the bed, cleaning. He paged housekeeping as well. When I was put back together, they helped me rise and walk back to bed. They settled me inside clean white sheets and under a green blanket. I pushed the button on my medicine machine. A woman arrived with a mop and cleaned the bathroom. Yes, it was that bad, all because someone in the OR neglected to replace protection after using a catheter.

This thoughtless, stupid mistake nearly broke me at that moment. It seems silly now that I was that upset, but brutal pain and the complete loss of control over my body was pretty crushing. Over the course of my life, I’ve had lessons in humility. This was just the latest.

An hour or two passed. My husband had to return home to the kids, who were being watched by his parents. I didn’t relish the idea of being alone or return bathroom trips, but I had no choice. Friends had told me they would visit me in the evening, so I looked forward to seeing their faces and maybe having something to eat from the liquid diet menu. A popsicle? Orange!

My three friends arrived. They brought a card and a beautiful floral arrangement with a little Get Well balloon. I was exhausted and in pain, but up for a visit. We chatted. I don’t remember the order of what happened, but in the course of their visit, one friend held a vomit bin for me because I wasn’t ready for an orange popsicle. I threw up all the water I managed to sip, too. This is not a fun thing to do after abdominal surgery, even with serious painkillers aboard. She stroked my head as I made sure I was done. Then she took the bin away and rinsed it out. When I had to go to the bathroom and nurses weren’t immediately available (shifts were changing), they helped me out of bed, steadied me, wheeled my IV pole, and helped me with my girl’s chores.

Again, I was struck by their caring tenderness and their sacrifice. It was Friday night. They had families of their own at their homes, but they came to see me, and not only see me, but see me at my weakest, lowest, most immodest, most human. They tucked me in, again. A baby. Their 40-year-old baby friend who usually meets them for coffee and can take herself to the bathroom just fine and usually holds her dinner safely inside.

What was supposed to be one mere night in the hospital turned into three nights. The pain was unreal, worse than any of my post-c-section pain. It took three days to find the right meds and doses to control my pain enough to go home. I had many more moments when I had to utterly surrender to the aid and assistance of others. My friends returned the next day and the next. My husband came. I hadn’t scared anyone away.

This morning, I prepared to take a shower. I looked in the mirror at my body. After two days home, the swelling has subsided, but I still frowned at my 4 slashes. Dumb body. If it hadn’t let me down, I wouldn’t have gone through everything I experienced this past week.

I’d be better off, right?

I’m not so sure. What was demonstrated to me during those days was a love I can’t describe. Real, true, tender love. I have no doubt that they were on a mission from a tender, loving God himself. He asks us to be his hands, his feet. The only explanation I have for my sense of grateful blessedness is that I firmly believe they were doing good things in the name of Love.

The only way to experience this is to jump in and help others, without question, with sacrifice. Or?

You become humbled, dirtied, blood-crusted, bent over, spewing, trembling, weeping. And then, though the power of all the love you felt?

You get better.