It’s a scene that has become all too familiar, yet somehow has not become any easier. I checked in at the covid screening tent, then made my way to registration (where they know me by name). After that, I waited in the medical imaging lobby (where the receptionist said “you’re back again?”). Then I was escorted here: to preop.
Soon I’ll change into the same ugly gown, wear the same grippy socks. The pre-op nurse (who greeted me by saying “we don’t mind having you as a patient, but we keep hoping you won’t have to come back...”) will access my port (needle #1 for the day). I’ll wait a few hours to meet with the doctor. I’ll consent to another invasive procedure, sign my name on the same dotted line. Yes, I acknowledge the risks. Yes, to all of it.
After that, I’ll be given a light sedative (not nearly enough if you want my honest opinion). The doctor will inject local anesthetic into my neck, needles 2,3, and likely 4. I’ll probably lose count. Then, I’ll have a series of CT scans. I’ll move in and out of the scanner again, while he studies the “suspicious” sites. Then, carefully, he’ll concoct a mixture of my own blood and fibrin glue, and inject into each of these areas. Directly into the nerve root. More needles, lots of them, but hopefully by the end of the day I won’t know or remember how many. Quite literally, we are attempting to glue humpty dumpty back together again. One section of the spine at a time.
And speaking of hope, somehow, yes, I’ve dared to dig down deep and find some. Let’s be honest, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t do this- again, for the 5th(?) time since November. Honestly, I’ve lost count. The recovery sucks. That’s all there is to it. 3ish days of strict flat bed rest. A long while of helplessness and relying on others - my personality weakness. And maybe that’s part of what God is teaching me in this season, the part of my heart that he’s maturing and growing, regardless of the fact I never asked to be grown in this way.
Deep down, a part of me has to hope that this will do the trick. That somehow, someway, this will be the day I’m healed. The beginning of returning to ME. The me who is happy, healthy, and enjoys eating donuts more than she should (I miss you, food). The last headache-free day that I can remember was July 15th of 2019 - and I really, really don’t want to make it to the one year mark.
I’ve found that somehow, hope and despair, optimism and realism are so infinitely intertwined that they’ve become hard to separate. And that’s okay. I’m both relieved and terrified to be here today. I’m both hopeful and leary. Somehow filled with both faith and anxiety. To some, this may sound so contradictory that it doesn’t make sense. And frankly, I can hardly make sense of it myself. Other than to say that it’s necessary. I have to have enough hope in this to be willing to endure the recovery. At the same time, I can’t get my hopes up high knowing they could be crushed if this doesn’t work.
So what do I do in the meantime? I’m not sure, other than literally one step at a time. One deep breath. Put on the gown. Sign the form. And just do it.
This morning, I’m praising God that after a million delays, I’m finally here today. Praising Him for a negative covid test. Thanking Him that through my pain, He’s already proven to use me to help other people, somehow mysteriously guiding them towards their own hope and faith even on days I can’t find any of my own to spare.
This morning, I’m praying for a smooth procedure and a recovery without complications. And perhaps most boldly, praying that this is the last time - pleading and believing for a miraculous healing.
& if not, He is still good. Yes & amen.