Suffering

Accordingly to the glowing red digits on the clock radio, it was about 2 a.m.  I quietly and carefully eased myself out of the bed.  I looked over to make sure Tex was still sleeping.  He was, his CPAP machine quietly humming to the rhythm of his breathing.  I looked over to the crate next to the wall where our puppy was sleeping.  That was my next hurdle.  I needed to make it past the crate without her noticing.  I moved slowly, inching my way past the crate.  She didn’t budge.  Great!  I did it!  I stood in the middle of the bedroom.  I hadn’t fully thought out the plan.  I just knew I had to get out of the bed.  I had been lying there for hours trying to ignore the pain and go back to sleep.  It wasn’t working. I wish I had remembered to bring my earphones upstairs.  I could listen to an audio book or some music.  But the earphones were downstairs.  I couldn’t go downstairs in the dark without supervision.  I quietly made my way over to the master bathroom, all the time trying to think about what to do.  I slowly and quietly closed the door and flipped on the light. I made it to the toilet and gingerly made myself comfortable and “took care of business”.  Then I sat there on the toilet, unsure of my next move.  My eyes were drawn to the 5 inch incision on my abdomen held together with surgical glue.  The glue was flaking, a good sign that the incision was healing. I resisted the urge to pick at the flakes. I couldn’t see the 4 inch incision on my back, but for a fleeting moment my mind flashed back to the agony of having the 19 staples removed a few days ago by the home health nurse. My hand instinctively reached back to feel the incision. I had been sitting for a few minutes and as the pain intensified, I was forced to get up.  I paced the bathroom.  The home health nurse would be here at 10 a.m. to check on my progress.  I started calculating the hours until she got here.  I little less than 8 hours.  Hmmm.  That’s like a whole work day.  In the quiet of the night, it seemed like a very long time.  The pacing turned out to have hidden benefits.  As I slowly moved around the bathroom, the pain subsided a bit.  It’s funny how much you appreciate lack of pain (or reduced pain) after you have been in pain.  I am not sure how it reached my conscious brain that the pain was less, but it felt like a little cloud had lifted, my furrowed brow smoothed, and I held my head a little bit higher.  This was good.  Now all I had to do was figure out how to sleep while pacing…

It was almost 3 weeks since my lumbar fusion back surgery.  This was my first fusion, but third back surgery.  A decade ago I reluctantly, but optimistically, underwent my first back surgery, hoping it would permanently resolve the pain from a ruptured disc compressing a nerve in my back.  I got relief for a while.  Five years ago, I was back in the same place, and was angry this time.  I never wanted back surgery.  Now I was looking at a second back surgery??!!?  Unreal.  Unacceptable. Over the years I have spent so much time in physical therapy I think they could hire me to be a therapist.  I have done acupuncture, been in chiropractic care, practiced yoga, and even had extensive (and expensive) spinal traction therapy.  I tried everything I could think of to relieve pain and prevent further injury to my back.  But in life, things don’t always work out the way we want them to, even with our best efforts. Back surgery number three, I desperately hoped, would be the last.

With the reduced pain level from the pacing, I figured it was time to make my way back into the bedroom.  It was almost 3 a.m.  Only 7 hours until the home health nurse would be here.   I turned off the bathroom light and slowly made my way back into the bedroom, pausing to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkened room.  Tex had put a night light in the corner so I had some light if I needed to go to the bathroom in the night.  He prefers for me to wake him so he can escort me.  But I never do.  So, he figured he would at least make sure I could see my way to the bathroom.  Back in the bedroom, I realized I did not want to get back in the bed.  Lying down would mean the pain would intensify.  I had taken myself off the narcotics a few days earlier and suffered severe withdrawals symptoms.   I didn’t want to get back on the narcotics, but none of the other pain relief aids were providing relief.  After 3 sleepless, pain filled nights, I was questioning my own judgement.  I just had to make it through the next 7 hours until the nurse was here.  That was my focus.  She would help me sort through what to do. 

My bedroom has a reading nook with an oversized papasan chair, a small armchair, and a zero gravity chair I’ve had for years.  New plan.  I was going to inch my way over to the reading nook.  The papasan chair was out of the question.  It was a struggle to get in and out of that thing for a healthy adult much less someone in my condition.  I decided the zero gravity chair was going to be my best bet.  I eased myself into it.  Then I realized, you have to use your body to create the momentum to recline.  I wasn’t sure I could, or should, do it.  But I was committed at this point.  I took a deep breath and carefully eased back, raising my legs.  To my relief the chair cooperated.  I sat there, reclined in the chair.  It wasn’t long before the pain started to ramp up.  I started to sob quietly.  This was so hard.  I did some deep breathing to calm myself down.  I prayed for patience. I prayed for strength.   I prayed for help. As I sat there in the dark, counting down the hours until morning, I thought about how much I took for granted regarding my health and well being.  I had forgotten what suffering felt like.  I thought of others in the world who were suffering – from physical pain, injustice, abuse, emotional pain - feeling overwhelmed, alone and helpless. I couldn’t help it, the tears started again.  I wasn’t crying for me this time, but for them.  I changed my prayer from “Lord, help me”, to “Lord, help them”.   In that moment I was grateful for my pain because it had humbled me and reminded me, in a very tangible way, of my brothers and sisters out there in the world being crushed under the weight of their suffering. 

Morning came, and with it, renewed optimism.  Maybe today we would find something to help relieve the pain that intensified so significantly at night.  We did.  With the help of my healthcare team, I started a new medicine that blocked nerve pain specifically.  It was a miracle as far as I was concerned.  I was able to sleep through the night for the first time in days.  Thank God!

While I am feeling better, rested, and more hopeful now, I don’t want to forget that suffering is a part of our human experience.  I work in healthcare for crying out loud; but…I still forgot. It is easy to forget, especially when we are busy living full lives. It takes walking in someone else’s shoes to understand, or remember, what they are feeling. While I am blessed with excellent health care and a strong support system, not everyone has that.  There is pain and suffering and unmet needs and we have a responsibility, as much as it is in our power to do so, to be part of the relief and healing. If you are in a season of suffering, I pray that the God of hope will strengthen you and help you through.  You are not alone; El Roi sees you.  The night may be dark, but morning is coming. I hope you will find help from the faith community, a healthcare provider, or someone you trust.  If you are doing great, maybe there is an opportunity for you to be an unlikely hero in the life of someone else who is suffering tonight.  May God bless you for it.

“…We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” Romans 5: 4-5 NIV