I’m a week-out from surgery, and a
week-in to the kind of uncomfortable indignity that is part-and-parcel of this
kind of surgery. Staples, a catheter… this time next Monday, God willing, I will have all of those implants out of
me and I will be on the road to feeling more nearly normal.
I am not complaining. Things could
not have gone much better than they have. Last week I was worried about 1) IV’s,
2) nausea, 3) discovery, and 4) the catheter.
So, by the numbers…
The nurse who did the IV left the
back of my hand alone, thankfully, and found a good vein near my left wrist. It
was not too bad a stick. The surgical team installed another in my other hand,
which is scarred, but I was asleep. Both IV’s held all week, stayed open and
did not have to be replaced. I was thrilled.
Various patches and drugs kept my
stomach calm, so that I had no nausea at all—until after I got home, when the
only thing on TV was “Christmas in July” on the Hallmark channel. Chemicals can
only do so much against such toxins. Still, I had no problem while in the
hospital (in the past, over the course of multiple surgeries, I have had my
head in a bucket on account of anesthesia), so I am thankful.
The pathology report came back doubly
early on Thursday morning: early in the day and early in the process. I did not
expect to hear till sometime this week or later, nor did I expect to get the
call from my doctor on the hospital phone. Now, if I had been awake, I might
have been taken aback and worried: after all, it was my doctor’ early morning
call, and unexpected, on the Monday after my Friday biopsy that told me I had
cancer. That he called, early, and earlier, could have meant bad news. Quite
the opposite, turns out. But I had to be sure… with my hearing the way it is,
and the room phones the way they are, I was having trouble getting a clear “read”
on what the doctor was saying. Fumbling with the volume control on the phone,
getting my hearing aids adjusted, I finally heard him say, “clean lymph hones,
clear margins, self-contained, you’re on cruise control.” I said, “Let me say
that back to you. Is this what I heard?” He said it was. Great, good news. (Since
that moment, which I have not properly toasted as of yet, I have been praying,
humbly, for the many others who have heard other than good news. Seems only
appropriate to join my prayers to theirs and to the Lord’s).
Come next
Monday, God willing, I will be free of these situational, uh, enhancements and
able to drive again and begin the real road back.
Meanwhile,
Hawthorne Lane UMC has been so wonderfully gracious to me over these last weeks
and months. So many pastors have gone through difficult diagnoses, procedures,
recoveries and rehabs without any of the kind of support I have received. I
have been so humbled by the outpouring of compassion and care.
I hope
more congregations realize that ministry and pastoral care is mutual. I hope
more pastors are able to benefit from the blessing of receiving care. While it
may be indeed be more blessed to give than to receive, I am here to prove that
it is a real blessing to receive, too—which means others are enjoying the “more”
blessing of giving.
Wonderful, God’s economy.