Fearfully & Wonderfully Made: Back To History in 2026 ​

A chaotic year with a happy ending

"I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made..." I hope y'all had at least half the Christmas joy I had (more on that in a second) and wish you peace and good health in 2026.   To retain my crown as Least Aggressive Fundraiser in Texas, I will mention this in passing before the meat of the article: if you intended to donate to the Trust but didn't because a certain someone didn't remind you, the 2025 window closes when the clock chimes at midnight. Just a few hours to go.   You can support our work by clicking RIGHT HERE.    Some of you may have noted that I didn't chime in on certain big history headlines in the last half of 2025. These include, but are certainly not limited to:  The firing of a history professor by Texas State University for proposing a communist coup of the U. S. government The forced resignation of the Alamo's executive director and her lawsuit against the board and state officials The grand reopening of Washington-on-the-Brazos Protests against the new curriculum framework and content advisors  The new Texas State Historian I've been monitoring those stories and many more. I did my research, outlined and drafted articles but inevitably was called away for medical duty before I could format and publish them.  Rather than jam all the stories I missed into one email, let's peek behind the curtain to look at why I couldn't publish them.   Here we go!   Y'all will recall my drastic, lifesaving surgery of August 2024. If you don't recall and care to learn, you can get caught up here.    Not dying in 2024 was kind of a big deal! It continues to be a big deal each and every day. Healing and finding a new normal took a few months but I was propelled forward by gratitude and better health.   I knew a second major surgery loomed but was told it would be simpler. Fewer surprises. A chance to rejigger and reconnect some things. What I didn't know were the myriad things I didn't know. The unknown unknowns, if you will.   My body was plotting and scheming, while my mind remained blissfully ignorant. Silly me.   I felt ready for a second round of what my talented surgeon jokingly calls "legal assault" in early May. He put me on the books for June. And yet, as he pored over my scans, pre-gaming the operation, he kept running into a problem that he couldn't work out.    My phone rang.   "Hey, girl! I'm walking through your scans, trying to map this thing out but keep running into a brick wall. Your uterus is in my way. It's kind of irritating."   "You're not the only man I know who feels that way. I'm an irritant."   "Well... are you using it?"   "I'm pretty attached to it but it's not currently occupied."   "Would you mind if I bring in a friend to take it out?"   "A friend? Is this person a surgeon or just someone you drink with socially?" "Look, there will be fewer complications on my end if it's out of my way. We can knock it out as one big surgery with two teams in the room. But if you don't want a hysterectomy, I understand that. I promise I'll figure it out, okay? Pray on it and let me know."   "Nope. Just set it up. It's your job to fix me and it's my job to handle how I feel about it. Schedule it." Okay, then. I admit it. I cried until I realized how foolish I was to expect a second surgery to make me whole without any sacrifices. There are no solutions, only trade-offs.     No operating theaters were available for a six hour block of time until July 2, so that was the Big Day. I had ample time to meet the newest member of my surgical team, ask a thousand questions, and get ready.    On the 2nd, I reported for duty. I was prepped, Dr. Askenasy and I prayed, and away we went.    Six or so hours later, I was awake and alive. Much like the last surgery, I was perplexed by unexpected changes to the landscape of my belly. I found two small incisions (expected) and a bonus eight inch Franken-scar straight down the middle.    Even my belly button had been cut in two! I had questions. When my surgeon visited I asked, "What kind of monster cuts a navel in half? What gives?"   As he gave me the answers, I felt the nerve block wearing off. Right on cue, my nurse came in to dispense the stuff that's supposed to ease the transition from anesthesia to reality. It doesn't do much for me but make me think of a particular Townes Van Zandt song. Every single time. They'd had difficulty removing my irritating uterus from my abdominal cavity through the usual route. They'd had difficulty stitching my intestines back together in the usual way. Evidently I'm a difficult irritant.    So they went ahead and cut my belly open. They went all 19th century on me.    Other news my surgeon delivered: because of the way he'd had to close up my guts, that section had to heal then I'd come back for yet another surgery.   This was not the end.    I was dispirited but recovery from the July operation was easier than I had anticipated, considering they'd gutted me like a trout. I followed the rules against sitting too long, standing too long, lifting too much, walking too little, etc.  I launched a new book for Copano Bay Press and felt pretty awesome (read: normal) overall. I was recovered enough to get knocked down again. In October, Dr. Askenasy had a look around to see if I had healed well enough to jump into final surgery.    Would ya believe me if I told you I'd healed too zealously?    Indeed I had! My body had gone ballistic and laid down so much scar tissue around the July connection site that it had to be reopened or sliced out entirely. Just like 2024, I was almost scarred shut.    "I'll go in there, inflate a balloon, rip that scar tissue open and place a stent. If the stent doesn't hold, we'll keep placing them until we find one that works. I will make one work."   I trust my surgeon and adore his optimistic nature but I was tired. I'd grown weary of telling friends that I was about to have my last surgery only to have my body make a liar out of me. I finally stopped talking about it altogether unless I was asked.   More than anything, I was tired of scheduling my work within those little pockets of normalcy between procedures and surgeries.    When invited to speak at or attend an event, I politely declined because who knows what medical obligations I might have? I certainly didn't know from one month to the next.    My optimism was in the toilet. I trudged to Houston just before Thanksgiving to have the stent installed. When I awoke, the nursing staff told me my doc had exited the procedure room dancing a jig. It had gone swimmingly.   The balloon had done its thing without causing more harm and I now had a foreign object living rent-free in my body. (I saw him after he was removed but assume y'all don't want to kick off 2026 with those images in your head. You're welcome!)   Some odd and severe pain from that little guy sent me to the emergency room a couple of times, but I lived to tell the tale. The CT scans reflected the state of my life: nothing was visibly wrong; things were simply disrupted.   After turkey day, I was informed that it was time to remove him and see if the tissue had remodeled itself in his image.   If so, I'd advance immediately to one last surgery and defeat the final boss. If not, I'd stay on the hamster wheel of procedures until God knows when. I am convinced that about a quarter of my body weight is comprised of various anesthetic substances by now.   I had zero confidence that the stent had taken. Yes, I'd prayed and prayed some more but I didn't feel right. I took that feeling as God's way of telling me, "It's not over, child. You have more to learn."     The scheduler worked me in for December 17 to have the stent yanked. If it had done good work, I'd be wheeled to a hospital room and have surgery on the morning of the 18th.    It worked!     The little stent guy and my body had gotten on well. I was parked in a room on the third floor, where I hoped to rest before surgery the next morning. Sleep had been elusive on the night of the 16th, probably because I was anxious. Now, on the eve of my final surgery, I was wide awake.    That condition - the annoying inability to sleep - persisted. Awake I stayed until 10 a.m. when I was supposed to head into surgery. Nobody came. I tried to nap. Sleep didn't come.    Nurses came and checked on me. A few of them asked after my cat, Lopez, or my resident bathtub spider, Franklin. They remembered our conversations from my previous stays but my exhausted mind tried couldn't quite get there. I tried desperately to figure out how they could possibly know about my house spider!   Something was off. Actually, most things were off.   "Do you see the ants around that light fixture there?" I asked my friend Carol, a true hero of this story who was with me through most of my Houston hospital excursions.    My patient, brilliant friend did not see the ants. This was good news, in a way, because who wants to be in a hospital with an ant infestation? The bad news was that I was hallucinating ants. Around every light fixture, ants. Sleep deprivation is a helluva drug.   When they took me for surgery at 3, the ants came to pre-op with me. When my surgeon stopped by to explain the delays (no operating rooms or surgical teams available), I let him know about the damned ants.    "I'll get you something to help you sleep. Rest! I'll see you in thirty minutes or three hours. As soon as a room opens, we'll put you back together again!" He flashed a can of soup he had stashed in the pocket of his white coat. He was sneaking off to drink dinner while we waited.   The drugs came but groggy was as close to sleep as I could get. While he ate canned soup, I lay in pre-op with the ants where I stayed until about 7:15. So much for that 10 a.m. start! By 10 p.m. I was back in my hospital room, awake and alive. Humpty Dumpty had been put back together again! And despite the two hour anesthesia nap, Humpty Dumpty was still hallucinating ants.    The ants were by my side even after I was discharged a couple of days before Christmas. I never slept but I did add cats to my hallucinatory repertoire. You can't see them in this photo but they're there! So is the ridiculous hernia belt I have to wear for a few more weeks.  Back at home, in my own bed, I slept like a rock. The ants and the cats finally exited the stage of my psyche. I woke up to the realization that God had seen me through.    My revised plumbing works like a charm. I have no pain meds but have an immense amount of respect for pain, so I don't mind it as a constant companion. It beats the hell out of ants and, like the ants, it will pass. The incisions, inside and out, continue to heal.   All's well. I'm healed.    When I fully realized that, the dam broke. I cried and cried some more. I soaked my yellow couch with tears of joy and gratitude. I couldn't (and can't) believe my good fortune.   What better Christmas gift than being made whole and healthy after so much sickness and uncertainty? What better time to reflect on the gifts of grace and redemption? In the end, it was the perfect ending.   I'm alive because of God. I'm well because God chose to put in my path a surgeon who wholly understands that we are all "fearfully and wonderfully made." As a matter of fact, that was one of the first things he ever said to me. He knows his patients are God's creations and accepts both sides - fear and wonder - to prepare for both. I could not have had a more skilled, honest, and hardworking doctor to shepherd me through this chapter of life.   I spent Christmas week in a healthy body, with Psalm 139 and reems of Kleenex to help me appreciate it.    With 2026 but a couple of hours off, I am full of hope and joy for the year's tasks. I have a couple of follow-up appointments to attend, but can now construct a schedule built around work rather than illness.   It feels good to feel good and I'm ecstatic to be able to share this joyful ending with y'all. I send my love, and wish each of you the best of health and a sense of peace in 2026.  God & Texas,   Michelle Michelle M. Haas, Chairman Texas History Trust

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