I faced an ancient radiator on my side, and without my glasses, its blurred bumps and peeling paint—even at three feet away—were my only entertainment. I closed my eyes and they burned. I opened them to close them again. One breath, then another, a third, and maybe a fourth. Back to counting by ones on the flannel sheets of our floor bed. The children’s hot cocoa and snow play morning was humming in the kitchen below. My husband stepped in and out, pressing a cool washcloth to my cheeks, checking my pupils dilated by pain. My phone lay still, quiet, watchful for the return call from the on-call doctor.
The interventional radiologist is prepped for you at the ER. You can go in now.
We headed to the hospital, my husband talking loudly as my eyes tried out rolling and my body threatened to go limp. We drove down the hill below our house and took two left turns to end up right in front of the emergency room doors. He helped me out of my side onto wobbly feet and unsure knees. Before he could return to his side of our rusty red van, I collapsed onto the sidewalk in an unceremonious heap. The rush of nurses and doctors in broad daylight shouted code words, stepped over Anthony’s splayed out palms, and gently but firmly directed him aside as the stretcher swooped out to scoop me up. It was, as you can imagine, quite embarrassing.
Does this count as an ambulance ride? I wondered as they escorted me through the double doors, folks lined up for fingers sliced with morning bagels, children’s coughs from deep through the night, and janitors sleepily sliding their brooms. Did Anthony find a parking spot? was my last concern before I lost the light all together.
* * *
The many hours prior, the days actually, since my spinal tap flurried into a spinal headache, my skull an anvil ready to topple over, had crawled by. A few visits from family and dear friends, many calls to the weekend neurologists trying to piece together why a routine spinal tap checking for MS symptoms had resulted in a not-uncommon but pernicious occurrence of torn dura, spinal fluid leakage, and utter physical collapse. My body waved its white flag. My mind wandered its corridors asking where next? and why me? My heart turned to the crucifix on the wall.
In those hours of waiting for a repair at the emergency room when no medicine could touch the searing pain, I learned from suffering, my harsh and honest teacher. I learned to turn myself over and be fully present in my pain. I learned that to avoid was to abjure an opportunity. I learned that Christ was already waiting in the fiery furnace for me. I was never alone.
When faced with suffering, my mind seeks to tamp it down and plan the escape route, like anyone facing a house fire. Maybe you also know this pivot & panic maneuver. How do we get to the next part? What even is next?
My desire to plan stems from my desire to know which, in turn, comes so much from my desire to control the outcome. What’s next really means I have a desired “next” step and want to finagle and figure my way there.
But, dearest reader, the lesson offered me that deep winter morning five years ago was detachment, one of opening my palms with nails embedded into them and simply letting go of what was next, what I wanted to be next, what I thought I could make happen next.
Detachment isn’t living devoid of hope, but rather a trust in and comfort derived from the fact (fact!!) that we are not in charge of most anything. The greater, hidden plan, the one we can’t control, is wild and unpredictable. It is also beautiful and glorious.
I wanted healing and answers, but mostly for the pain to stop. Eventually it did, but in the meanwhile I was invited to detach from my list of wants. I was with God in that pain. He knows pain so intimately.
Whatever crucible you find yourself in, stop thrashing. Stop asking for the suffering to stop and ask yourself a different question besides “what’s next.” Ask for greater awareness of God’s presence in the moment. And the next moment. And even the next one.
The addiction to prediction is prevalent for me. I want to know what’s coming, whether it’s who the heck is using their cell to call me, what the livelihood will be for our family in the next year, or if my siblings will be all together for a reunion.
Instead of what’s next, consider what’s here? What’s now? What’s unfolding?
Don’t look away and long for what’s beyond you, dear reader. (Though I do it too.) We already have discovered that our satisfaction can’t be derived from our circumstances. The invitation to detachment is teaching me this, again and again. It might want to teach you the very same lesson.
Until next week and in this together,
Nell
"Detachment isn’t living devoid of hope, but rather a trust in and comfort derived from the fact (fact!!) that we are not in charge of most anything. The greater, hidden plan, the one we can’t control, is wild and unpredictable. It is also beautiful and glorious."
This has been a huge lesson for me in the past 5 years with my own auto-immune/health struggles & is definitely present now as our family prepares for the birth & welcoming of our 2nd baby. So much out of our control but God is with us. Thanks so much for sharing your experience & these beautiful words to revisit & remind ourselves any time they're needed!
Finally reading this. Exactly what I need to ponder in the midst of losing so much freedom with poor health. “What’s next“ can almost be like a false god. I’ve spent too much time there & it’s true freedom to begin to break with the desire for control. Blessings to you!