There are many pain surgery centers in my area and, unfortunately, I’ve visited a few. In the last five years or so, I’ve been going to just one, and all the steroid injections and ablations have made me a familiar face to the nurses. (I always fill out my “patient survey” forms when I get home because the staff is so friendly and kind that I feel like their bosses should know.) Then, after a fusion a couple years ago, I no longer needed a procedure every six weeks. I didn’t realize how easy it was to put surgery centers out of my mind until I was reorganizing my closet last year. I found a dusty, glass jar in which I had saved all my patient ID wristbands for the last seven years.

I’m a sentimental person, at least when it comes to possessions and all sorts of records. For example, I have all my diaries and journals back to when I was six years old. These, though, were white, red, and yellow plastic strips bearing only numbers, dates, and “adhesive allergy.” It had been two years since I’d last put something in the jar, but I had never found it in myself to throw it away. But what was I clinging to? As someone with occasional memory problems, I understand keeping little things to remember big things. The old me kept all my half-empty pill containers from the last seven years. I had my stethoscope and all my old medical tools in a box, even though much of it was broken. Quite a while ago, I trashed all the medications (smashed and mixed in coffee grounds), and even parted ways with my otoscope and suturing tools. Last month, I finally threw away those wristbands, jar and all.

At 6:12 this morning, I was back in the surgery center, getting a lumbar epidural steroid injection. The nurse anesthetist remembered me, and we chatted about hiking and how lucky I am to live within walking distance of some nice trails. As we both expressed our excitement for such a great park, I just kind of blurted out, “It’s amazing because it’s been so long since… since my body could handle it.” Then came the propofol and a nice nap in the recovery room. After getting home and taking off my jacket, I cut the allergy and ID bands from my wrist and tossed them in the trash. It may have been the anesthesia wearing off, but I just stood there and stared at the trashcan for a good thirty seconds.

In my wilderness wandering between getting sick and moving to Tennessee seven years ago, God stripped away everything with which I had defined myself over the last 20 years. Because of this, I can now praise God daily that my identity is something far less superficial and fragile than “emotionally stable, well-educated professional.” My identity can never be taken from me now because it’s not manmade, but of the very craftsmanship of God. That isn’t what passed through my mind as I zoned out in front of my bedroom trash can, though.

I have always been a black-and-white thinker and an all-or-nothing person. (Read my Circuit Breaker.) When I look back at my past, I see three blocks: my life outside of God’s will, my life in a battle with God’s will, and the peace of my life living within God’s will. As I tossed those plastic markers of my medical conditions away, I realized (not for the first time) that, over the last decade, I hadn’t completely embraced my identity as “all-in believer” like I’d thought. Keeping all those useless bands was no different than my keeping every ribbon and certificate I’ve gotten since elementary school. I’ve always liked reminders that I’m good at something, that I’ve excelled in some way. I kept a jar of medical souvenirs in my closet because somehow, subconsciously I think, being defined by God wasn’t enough. As I had little else besides him and my family, I became a Professional Patient. And, if you could’ve seen that jar, you would know I was a great one.

Somehow, I didn’t think of any of this when I tossed all those useless reminders of ongoing pain. It was this morning, looking at the first medical bracelets I’d worn in a while, that I realized how I’d let my illness so consume my thoughts that it became… me. Dr. Bipolar Chronic Pain, Professional Patient.

I’ve borne my identity as God’s child for years now, but that doesn’t mean all my sharp edges have worn off. I can tell my identity hang-ups still need refining anytime a stranger asks, “So, what do you do?” Finally, though, my answer is not related to the 14 medications I take or whether I need a ride to a doctor appointment. And that simple fact has led to an incredible peace; my soul has joy and rest whether I add another medicine or stop taking any at all. I didn’t notice it as it happened, but isn’t it fun to only see the difficult journey in your rearview mirror? Amen and amen.