That night, after being diagnosed with neutropenic fever, was fitful. I woke several times, drenched in perspiration but chilled to the bone. They kept administering the I.V. antibiotics, and I was getting Percocet for pain, which would bring my fever down slightly. The cough that had started in the E.R. had developed into a full-blown, racking cough. I had a splitting headache. And the medicine they were giving me to stimulate my bone marrow to produce white blood cells was causing bone pain.
The nurses had warned me about the bone pain. I'd said, okay, I've had aching in my bones, I can deal with that. Oh, my - I had no idea. When the nurse first came in with Percocet, she asked if my bones hurt. I said I was achy, and she said that it hadn't started yet. I'd know when I had bone pain, and I wouldn't feel achy. When it started, it took my breath away. It was severe, sharp, constant pain in the core of my bones. It felt like my skeleton was on fire. I have a memory of sitting on the hospital bed, with my knees drawn up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. My dad was there with me, with his large hands shoved into too-small latex gloves, and a paper mask over his face. I was in such agony, I was rocking, rocking, rocking - like some sort of bizarre self soothing instinct was fueling me. Every once in a while a little mew of pain would escape my lips. In some distant part of my mind where I was still calm and focused, I remarked to myself that I sounded like a wounded animal, but I couldn't control it. I don't remember my father saying anything - he just silently watched me suffer, unable to do anything about it. The staccato rhythm was beating in my head, 'come on, come on, come on...' as if I could will the hands of the clock to move faster toward that magic time when I was allowed more pain medicine.
This intense pain was on top of the illness that was tearing through my body. The cough was constant. I was imagining infectious crud filling my lungs, because I knew my immune system had thrown up its hands in surrender. It was so hard to cough - it hurt my chest and my throat, and I would hold my head in my hands, trying to keep it from moving because the coughing made it feel like it might split apart. As I lay there, I thought of my neighbor and dear friend who has cystic fibrosis, and it gave me the courage to say, 'buck up, child - she goes through this all the time.' At one point my nurse came in and handed me a small cup of liquid. He said, 'I can't stand hearing you suffer anymore. Drink this - you'll thank me later.' As only the desperate will do, I threw it back without a second thought. It was absolutely foul, nasty tasting stuff. I curled into a fetal position, as my cough slowly quieted, and sleep overtook me. I slept for three straight hours, without so much as twitching. It was a gift - a little bit of peace in the midst of the storm, and I did thank him.
During all of this, I was still swimming in a sea of self-pity. I just felt sorry for myself - plain and simple. It seemed so unfair. This was my fourth hospitalization in two months. This was the second time in six weeks that I'd been so sick I couldn't lift my head off the pillow. I thought that this was why people gave up, why they decided to refuse treatment and accept death - because the physical suffering was so unbelievably hard, at some point it wouldn't seem worth it anymore. I wasn't in that place, but I had a better understanding of people who were, a new compassion born of understanding.
And in all this time in the hospital, I had never been visited by a hospital chaplain, until this day. I now believe she was sent to me, like a divine appointment, because of what transpired while she was with me. For one thing, she was a beautiful person. She had long, straight hair, a pretty face, and a lilting eastern-European accent. She was soft spoken and gentle, when she introduced herself and asked if I wanted to talk. God knows me. If it had been a man asking, I would have said no thank you. If she had had a gruffer manner, if she had been imposing, I would have said no thank you. But she was quiet and kind, and when she asked if I wanted to talk, I felt my eyes filling with tears and heard myself saying yes. I poured out my frustration, and she listened. She sat by my bed and held my hand, and I felt like a little girl crying to my teacher about how I was being bullied, hoping she could somehow fix it.
When I finished, she asked what my faith tradition was, and I said Christian. So she asked if she could pray with me, and I, of course, said yes. I shut my eyes, and waited to hear her ask God to fix everything. My eyes flew back open when she started her prayer with, 'Holy Spirit, I ask You to help LaRae surrender to You.' I couldn't believe it. It felt like God was telling me, "Child, I just want you to let go."
But letting go is not an easy thing. It meant letting go of control, and letting go of the need to have a certain outcome. I had to be content with whatever outcome He chose for me, which meant surrendering my will to His - also no easy thing. I've heard people refer to Christian faith as a 'crutch', a 'bandaid' that we put on the wounds of life. They have no idea - obedience to God's word can be amazingly hard. I'm reminded of the verse which says, "Narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it." Difficult is the way - I knew what God was asking, and I knew I had to do it. I was in a tremendous struggle, wrestling with myself. I wasn't sure how to go about submitting my will to His, so I gripped my hands into fists and took a deep breath. I then let the breath out, opened my hands, and said, 'I release it.' And, as is the way of obedience, what in one moment seemed nearly impossible, in the next - after that simple act - became easy. I felt it go. I felt myself relax. I was at peace. Although I had struggled before, and would struggle again with surrendering my way to His, in that moment - in that room - in that storm, I got it. I could let go because He was holding me.
Monday, July 5, 2010
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