We stopped counting after the twentieth
outpatient visit to our mother’s local hospital. The staff nodded, waved, or
smiled their greetings of recognition as we walked the same path each time
through the lobby, admissions, and various levels until we reached our therapy
destination. As predictable as the coming of a full moon, we came every four to
six weeks, sometimes sooner, but never later.
The week of our first daughter’s
wedding, she had an open heart surgery, made more tenuous because of a history
of several ongoing health issues. Thankfully, she made it through surgery and
had recovered just enough to sit quietly at the back of the church to observe
her granddaughter’s wedding. Unfortunately, what had been good for her heart
was bad for her lungs. A painful, slow buildup of fluid now had to be drained
for release and relief.
We would learn what a pulmonologist was
for and wonder why so few of them were practicing in our large urban sprawl.
Timely appointments were hard to get. Fortunately, a doctor’s orders were not
necessary for each procedure after he confirmed this would become part of her
health routine.
A strong, feisty woman who had been
turned gentler and submissive by the loss of her husband and her better health,
she now went quietly to doctors to be told what would happen next. Still, as an
intelligent and widely self-educated woman, she could still muster a clear, ‘no’,
to medicines that made her hurt and diminished, or to diets and regimens she
knew she would not stick with for long.
Today we carried x-rays from the
previous week’s pulmonology visit showing the lungs were half full, the
pressure building and the deep breathing capacity diminishing. We walked slowly
from the parking lot, carrying the confirmation of her self-diagnosis in a
large labeled envelope, acknowledging as we went the friendly welcome of the
many staff that recognized us as familiar strangers.
I handed the technician the films of my
mother’s lungs and watched her gentle care as she guided her to the room where
the procedure would take place. A large needle would be inserted between her
ribs on her back. As much as a liter of fluid would be withdrawn. Just thinking
about it made me squeamish. Wisely, I was never given the option of
accompanying her into the treatment room. She rarely revealed the pain she was
in, her growing stillness, gathering her resolve to be brave.
I settled into a chair and pulled out a
magazine from a book bag I kept packed ready for waiting rooms in doctors’
offices.
After five minutes, the technician
returned. “I’m sorry. We won’t be able to drain your mother’s lungs today.”
“But we have an appointment,” I
responded, walking towards her, confused.
“She doesn’t have any fluid in her
lungs.”
“B-B-But… the x-ray. The doctor said…”
I stammered.
“There is nothing to drain today,” was
the emphatic response.
Arm in arm, happy tears streaming down
our faces, we slowly retraced our steps back to the car, stopping to inform the
staff and anyone who looked like they wondered what had happened to us that
Jesus had healed my mother! The answer to a multitude of prayers had been “YES!”
today.
Our voices were incredulous and full of
the shock of an unexpected generous gift as we could not keep quiet about the
miracle of divine restoration we had
witnessed that morning. We walked as in a dream, periodically shaking our
heads, and laughing with joy, marveling together at God’s goodness towards us.
Almost six weeks later, we were back
for another lung draining procedure. Yet our confidence and trust remained
high. We knew God could and had healed my mother, although only for a season.
Because He had, we knew He might again. We were reminded in an unforgettable way that He hears us and
knows not only what is best for us but when is best for us. We could trust Him.
And we did.
Months later, the pulmonologist would
coat the inside of her lungs with a film of talc, a carcinogen. The powder
would stop the painful procedures for a projected twenty years. The potential
risks deemed less than the potent realities in her advancing years.
I try to remember the lessons learned
that day when a situation in life is inexplicably difficult for an inexplicably
long time. Always, if I will pay attention, there is some confirmation somewhere
that there is reason for hope, that my pleas and prayers have been heard, that
help is on the way, if only for a season.
For centuries the wise and devoted Julian
of Norwich has been quoted by those who wait in difficulty, “All shall be well…”
For decades I have observed her words
to be true - all shall be well - indeed; in due course, eventually, in the
fullness of time…”all shall be well.”
