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"Where
to?" the driver asked.
"Oak Park Hospital," I explained as I climbed into the cab.
As we drove off into the darkness, I couldn't help but feel
like the main character in a surgical version of The Night Before Christmas.
'Twas
the morning of surgery, I mused, and all through the house, not a
family member was stirring, not even my spouse.
The
girls' clothes were hung on their doorknobs with care, so
Bill wouldn't have to figure out just what they should wear.
Cereal
bowls were on the table, homework done the night before. All Bill
had to do was get the girls out the door.
Before
I could finish the next stanza, the driver pulled into
the hospital parking lot.
"That
will be thirty-one dollars," he informed me after stopping
near the entrance.
I
handed the man my credit card and waited for him
to return it. When he did, the driver looked at me
and said hesitantly, "I hope it goes well for you."
"I do,
too." I replied with a weak smile as I exited the vehicle.
"I do,
too." I said again after I was admitted to the hospital and
directed to the elevator that
would take me to the pre-surgery waiting area.
As I
rode the elevator to the fourth floor, I
felt very alone. I also felt very insecure, especially after
the doors opened and I walked out to find two nurses waiting
for me at the front desk.
"Remove your clothes and put these on," one of the women
said as she handed me an open-backed gown and what looked like a shower cap.
"All of my clothes?" I asked hesitantly.
"All
of them," she confirmed before directing me to a room
where I could change.
"How
can anyone maintain their self-esteem wearing this?"
I asked as I tucked my
hair into the elastic cap and did my best to tie the back of
the gown
closed.
When
it was secured to my satisfaction, I sat down in the room to wait.
This feels so wrong, I thought to myself, wishing I
had someone to talk to. Just then a nurse entered the
room to take my blood pressure and ask how much I weighed (not
exactly the conversation I was hoping for).
Soon
after, a different nurse entered the room to wheel me to the
surgical floor.
"You're glasses need to stay here," she explained.
Despite my near-sightedness, I took them off and
climbed onto the bed.
Stripped of everything—and everyone—who gave me comfort, I
stared at the ceiling as the nurses wheeled me back into the elevator and
then out onto the surgical floor where, even with my blurred vision, I
could see a long row of people waiting for their turn on the
table.
Maybe we can be alone, together. I decided as the nurses
parked me between two people awaiting tonsillectomies.
Before
I could explore this thought further, I was surrounded by
nurses and physician's assistants, all vying for my
attention. As much as I appreciated the company as they applied
heart monitors and inserted an IV, I was also relieved when they were gone.
With
no one else to talk to,
I focused on the one person who remained.
"Please Jesus," I
prayed. "Guide the surgeon who is fixing my knee and watch over me until I wake up."
With
those words said, I was totally at peace with the early surgery time—not because I
wanted to be alone—but because
I needed a
reminder that I wasn't.
In his
January 7th entry of the
daily devotional, Pathways To His Presence, Charles
F. Stanley wrote: "God knows far more about your future than
you ever could. He allows roadblocks so that you will not be
diverted from His best." For me, His best at that moment was
realizing that it was better to be
alone with my eyes fixed on Jesus, than in a crowded room
where I lose sight of him.
I held
onto this thought as two nurses arrived to move me to
the operating room.
"This will relax you," one of the women
said as she pushed a clear liquid into my IV.
Sounds good to me. I thought to myself, trying not to
think about the abuse my knee would take as the surgeon
drilled holes into my femur and tibia before screwing the new ligament into place.
Two
minutes later I was in the operating room, waiting for the
drug I had been given to kick in.
"We're
going to move you onto the table now," one of the nurses
said. Before
I had time to nod in understanding, I was lifted onto the
silver slab.
I
really don't need to be awake for this, I decided as
two nurses slid what looked like airplane wings out from under the table and worked in unison to secure
my arms to them.
Thankfully, I began to grow tired. As my left leg was
moved into position, I drifted off to sleep knowing I had done the right thing, both on this trip to the
hospital and the last.
I had
done the right thing because, only when it's not about us, can we make
it about someone else. And only when that someone is a
person who cannot be with us, are we free to recognize and give
our undivided attention to ... the One who's
been in the room with us all along.
Two
Quotes
to Grow On
"Do not allow the incessant noises of life to drown out His
voice."
Charles
F. Stanley Pathways To His Presence, January 15th Devotion.
"When
we are still and quiet in His presence, we put ourselves in
the most teachable position possible."
Charles
F. Stanley, Pathways To His Presence, January 30th Devotion.
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