Looking out of my two eyes, I saw my feet, for, perhaps, the first time in awhile. I felt the weight that they had to bear, the unyielding gravitational pull. And I felt my knees weaken at this pressure. For the first time in my life, my earthly body seemed nothing less than a burden. A burden to be borne and endured, not adorned and arrayed. And I could truly whisper to myself that the promise of the Kingdom to come is surely a blessing and a welcome comfort.
~Nutmeg, 2004
I started blogging when Little Love was 8 months old. The above was written by me in my (handwritten!) journal after a particularly difficult c-section recovery with her. I had gained a lot of weight that pregnancy, and the after-effects of the pain medication, coupled with an extremely colicky baby was taking it's toll. Throw in my stair-stepped children (ages 2,4,5 and 7) and I was seriously pushing the limit of my sanity. Other moms are more resilient, I'm sure. But #5 drove me to my knees. Don't get me wrong, I was so thrilled to have my Little Love. A traumatic miscarriage one month before conceiving her had cured me of any selfish doubts. But it was by far the most difficult recovery I've ever had.
Naturally, I've been gun shy ever since. After Little Dude's existence was made known to us, I was thrilled, but cautious. Ok, who am I kidding... I was scared sh*tless. I did not want to go through the fear and anxiety I experienced during the surgery... did not want the horrific recovery... did not want the colicky baby with acid reflux. I wasn't sure that all of my longing for another little one would turn out to be the best thing for us.
*smile*
The morning of Little Dude's scheduled birth, I explained to DH my need for some Mama time. I needed to shower, to do my hair, to accomplish some detailed grooming... because I knew it would be at least a week before I would be strong enough to give any attention to detail in regards to personal hygiene. Sorry, (tmi?) but surgery recovery is no picnic. And I knew it.
Surprisingly, I was calm. Begging for prayers from all corners of the internet and real world friends, I was amazed at the effects. I had a game plan, and was following it to the letter. Baby steps, I decided. Take one thing at a time. First step, pack. Next step, get to the hospital. And so on from there. At each turn, I would take a deep breath and submit. Hospital gown? check. I.V. line? check. Scary consult with the Anesthetist? You betcha. Throughout all of this, my mind focused on something I had read that morning. A poor woman had revealed on the Faith and Family blog that her husband was caught in the throes of a porn addiction. My heart ached for her, and I was moved to promise her that I would offer up my sufferings that day for her. Oh, to think that maybe my meager sufferings could aid in his release from that bondage! My resolve was hardened.
The peace was unbelievable.
There
were moments of pain and panic, I will not lie. I have a slight scoliosis in the base of my spine, and the positioning of the epidural was tricky... and painful. Having the anesthesiologist ask you which nerves were spazzing out as he pushed the needle one way or the other? Yeah. Not pleasant. Lying down on your side to let the medicine have easier access to that one side that wasn't quite numbing properly? Wondering if they'd have to redo it? And what about the surgery? Eeeek. Yes, there were moments of panic. DH was not allowed in to the O.R. at that point either. I had forgotten about that. He would not be allowed in until I was numbed and the sheet was positioned. And that added to my anxiety. To be suffering and in pain and confusion without my stronghold beside me. That was probably the hardest part. But I remembered my resolve. I was determined to hang on to my peace. And the prayers carried me through.
And as the medicine took effect, DH was ushered in. He took my hand and smiled.
My arms were outstretched and the words of Our Lord took root in me.
This is my body... given up for you. I was fully living this truth at the time that the first incision was recorded.
During the surgery, with all of it's strange sounds and smells, I had my eyes closed. My doctor asked how I was doing, and the nurse anesthetist said I was smiling. Strange, huh. I was thinking about Little Dude, and how we would meet him soon. And I couldn't wait.
The moment I heard Little Dude... the tears sprang up, unexpectedly. And as I laughed them away, I remembered that I always cry when I first hear those wails. They wrapped him up and laid him on my outstretched arm, close enough so I could kiss his face. My arms still immobile, DH held him in place for me. As my doctors finished their work, I lost all sense of time just gazing at his face. And during recovery, the protocol at the hospital is for complete skin on skin time. Having him nurse and snuggling him close made the time go by quickly. I can barely remember my doctor checking in on me before he headed home. Something about how it all went well.... and then he was gone.
My doctor. A few words about him. He is Catholic, Pro-life and NFP-only. Knowing that the man who was performing the surgery was most likely in the state of grace gave me a confidence that I hadn't thought of before. I could almost picture the guardian angels guiding his hands. He is meticulous. So much so that he refuses to deliver his own children... afraid that his emotions would cause him to lose focus. He plays the role of dad then... but for us, he was all business. And I just love him for that.
After I was home a few days, and reflecting on how God's grace and many prayers carried me through each hurdle of recovery.... (first time up, first shower, removal of bandages, then removal of staples, etc) It dawned on me that it's really all about trust. Trust in God. Trust in your caregivers. Being rolled from the operating table to the recovery bed and then onto my hospital bed.... ever had that done? They tip you on your side, then lift you by the sheets and plop you on the other bed. I was completely numb, staring at the floor, as they tipped me one way, and then another. Totally helpless. But I had to trust. If I freaked out just a little, tried to steady myself with my arms... then the IV bag would have gone flying, and in their surprise, the nurses may have lost their grip on me. And those nurses? They are
good. Protecting my dignity, soothing my fears, all while letting you know that this is routine. It's done all the time. And while you are uniquely you... you are also just part of their normal day. And there is something really comforting in knowing that.
How much more God loves us. He paralyzes us with his love. Tips us one way, then another. Only asking us to trust, not to freak out.
Because his grip on us is secure.
And there is something even
more comforting about that.
