Don noticed that I haven’t written anything in a long while (indeed, about 6 weeks it appears)…suspiciously corresponding to about the time my Garnier Truffle #50 was replaced by Father Time Silver and White (new profile pic coming soon).
While amusing, I was touched by his point. And that he noticed the absence of my ramblings. I had noticed, too, but I assumed I was the only one.
There has been non-hair stuff to write about the past month and a half. Quite a bit in fact. But I wasn’t sure how and then I wasn’t sure if. But Don’s loving nudge prompted sentences and phrases to start unfolding in my head last night; always my cue to head to the keyboard.
My mom had heart surgery a little less than three weeks ago. A valve replacement. I now have new appreciation and gratitude for pigs. I actually said a silent prayer of thanks for the one that gave its life so my mom could continue hers. Modern medicine is astounding.
Mom never had any history of heart issues, so this rather sudden need for a new valve was quite a shock. A murmur had been detected by an east coast doctor several years ago but it was only noted, never pursued. Then a doctor in my parents’ new home town in Idaho announced Mom had “quite a healthy heart murmur.” Tests eventually revealed he was using “healthy” in the strong and bold sense, not the you’re-not-sick sense.
It was crazy. Mom had no symptoms. Some test results suggested she should at least be utterly exhausted if not often short of breath. Her heart was working so very very hard and yet only machines gave any clues of its distress.
As schedules were determined and vacations cancelled and cat sitters arranged, there was absolutely no question that I would be heading to Idaho. The only question was for how long.
Depending how the surgeon accessed the heart, Mom’s recovery could be measured in long weeks (heart accessed by going in between her ribs) or in long months (heart accessed by breaking Mom’s sternum).
The rib route would be more painful short-term but traumatized muscle and tissue recover much faster than broken bone. We were all praying for the rib route. Nevertheless, I packed two weeks’ worth of clothes, including gear for snow as well as shorts and sandals. Late spring in Idaho is more fickle than a love-starved teenage girl. I wore everything I packed at least once.
Cutting to the punchline, Mom is doing fantastic. Like rock star amazing. The surgeon was able to take the rib route and there were no surprises or complications as far as he was concerned. Hallelujah.
Mom was in ICU for 5 days. Once at home, she had a nasty cough for about 5 more days and had some trouble sleeping. But that’s now all under control. She is already walking a cumulative 2 miles per day on her multiple walks; she wasn’t taking walks at all pre-surgery. She has her first follow-up appointment with her surgeon tomorrow. I fully expect a glowing report.
So that’s the nuts-and-bolts story of where I’ve been the past several weeks. The matter of facts, the mostly objective details.
But there’s another part of the story that has given me pause about whether to share. It’s personal and profound. I’m still wrapping my brain around it, although my heart has been certain of the impact from the first moment.
I’ve debated if this is the forum to discuss it. Although I deal with some heavier topics here occasionally, it’s the rare entry that I bring God into the discussion. My relationship with God and the Holy Spirit (aka “my little voice”) is a private and sacred one. I feel incredibly vulnerable discussing it in a one-way bloggy conversation. Yet the true essence of my mom’s heart surgery cannot be understood without acknowledging God.
So deep breath. Here we go.
The fullness of my Mom’s heart surgery was one of the most profoundly spiritual experiences of my life. Although I have gratefully felt the presence of the Holy Spirit enough times to know what it feels like and what those tears mean, it has always been in moments. It danced all around our trip to Israel several years ago, but it came and went as I literally walked on holy ground. The Spirit's presence was undeniable yet fleeting.
With Mom’s surgery, it was as if God boarded the plane with me in Portland and didn’t leave my side until I collapsed back at home a couple weeks later. I felt His presence in the hospital waiting room. He gave me a pep talk in the car. He spoke words of encouragement and direction as I stared at the book case in my parents’ guest room. He wrapped his arms around me in seat 3A despite the lack of legroom.
Mom’s third night at home – and the first one after Rob returned to Woodhaven – was a very rough night. The coughing was bad. My dad was having his own health issues due to the stress and worry of seeing his partner of over 50 years more vulnerable than she had ever been. Communication was strained, emotions were raw, exhaustion was rife.
That morning, through hidden tears, I sent a desperate text to three beloved friends. Friends whom I knew would understand my plea and would come to my rescue with all that they had. I asked them to pray.
Asking for prayers is a humbling thing. In some ways, more humbling than actually praying itself. It’s a public admittance that you need help, that you are NOT handling things well, that your own prayers feel inadequate. Asking for prayers requires giving the details, exposing the fears, dropping the veil that you are strong.
Within just a couple hours of surrendering to the hope and power of prayer, I saw its wonder unfold in my parents’ living room. The change was so complete and so dramatic, I could not reasonably conclude any other explanation. It wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t merely the passage of time. It wasn’t just life. It was God. God answering the sincerest pleas for help and healing and guidance and perspective. I shouldn’t have been surprised and yet I was amazed and overwhelmed with awe and gratitude for His faithfulness to answer.
Mom’s first night in the hospital, right after surgery, was also apparently really rough. Perhaps one of the most terrifying nights of her life, although I’m not sure what thoughts haunted her when she was a 21-year-old young mother of a 2-year-old whose husband was fighting a war in Vietnam.
But this night, in Room 5 in the Cardiac ICU, Mom had intense, vivid, horrifying nightmares. Visions that she was the devil, visions that she pushed a button that ended the world, visions that caused her to tremble when describing them later.
But in the midst of those horrible nightmares, Mom saw a peaceful blond-haired man sitting on a bench off to the side. His hands were lightly folded in his lap. He was wearing a yellow sweatshirt. He didn’t say a word but his presence and purpose were clear to Mom. He exuded peace and comfort and safety amid the terror. She is certain he was God. And witnessing her telling the story with contented conviction, I believe her.
This was among some unexpectedly holy moments I had with my mom in the hospital.
A couple of times Mom asked to pray with me and Rob. A “circle prayer” she called it with surprising ease, reaching for our hands. I had never prayed with my mom before. Not even grace at the dinner table. God wasn’t a public part of my family growing up. Although Mom has had a relationship with God since her childhood, I didn’t invite Him into my life until I was 39. I’m not sure where my dad is on the God thing. So praying with my mom in the hospital was unexpected and unfamiliar and vulnerable and real and intimate and profound.
Several times after the nightmarish night – long after any traces of the medications that might have produced the visions were gone – my mom sobbed with gratitude for God’s comfort and presence. Her emotions so overwhelmed her, I fully expected nurses to rush in to see what was causing their monitors to go haywire.
Through Mom’s tears and heartfelt words of thankfulness, I witnessed true and complete worship for the first time. I attend a Quaker church; we are a sanctuary dominated by introverts. Our worship can be mighty but it is much more inward than demonstrative. Until this moment with my mom, I had never really seen someone completely submit themselves to God with gratitude and devotion.
It was a profound honor witness this intimate, unabashed expression of worship. The fact that it was my mom – not a friend or fellow church-goer -- still overwhelms me. It feels in a weird way that her letting me witness that moment was a gift, a gift of the magnitude that only a mother can give, like the gift of life.
Coincidentally – or actually not – Mom gave me the gift of showing me what true worship really looks like on Mother’s Day. Although they were not the best circumstances under which to be able to spend Mother’s Day with my mom, it could not have been more perfect a celebration of what it means to be hers…and His.
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