Mother's Happy Day

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 As much as a liter of fluid would be withdrawn.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.”