Two Hospital Stays and the Real "Guru"

This past March, my beloved IronMan (who has scarcely been sick a day in his life) found himself in a hospital bed teetering on the fulcrum between possible grave-danger and life for eight long days. His pain was excruciating. He was not allowed to eat or drink, and he had four separate IV sites running multiple hefty antibiotics and fluids through each individual line. Mean (but necessary) potassium (which definitely earned its reputation) had an exclusive IV line. Veins were blown. IV's were removed and re-inserted until there were hardly any new usable sites. Everything surrounding IronMan's care was to prevent emergency surgery that could bring its own new set of extreme challenges and risks. One nurse painstakingly researched all of the ordered meds to make sure they "played well" together in the IV lines, and spent 90 minutes after her shift ended untangling and organizing the lines and thoughtfully placed the bags on a more complex IV pole to help insure something serious wouldn't get mixed up. Round-the-clock vitals were monitored and all that could really be done was to wait. Wait to see how bad this might get. Wait to see if he would be thrust into surgery. Wait to see if the meds were going to work. Wait in the midst of unrelenting physical pain. 

Our lives were disrupted. You cannot prepare for a life-event like this. It just happens to you, and all you can do is your best. YOUR BROKEN-BEST. When IronMan was finally discharged, he was so happy to be going home, but he was not well.  Being out of serious danger and being well are two very different things. Although he was released from needing round-the-clock medical care, he still needed care. Although he was no longer in a hospital room, he was not yet ready to return to his usual daily life. Continual pain nagged that something was still very wrong. After a series of detailed tests, various imaging, and consultations with doctors and surgeons, the decision was made to have elective surgery to remove the problematic area entirely. We were assured that choosing to have a scheduled surgery was far safer than waiting and risking invasive emergency surgery. We were not far enough removed from the trauma of the eight day hospital stay to chance repeating that again, so surgery was scheduled. Each day leading up to surgery felt long. IronMan felt a bit like a ticking time-bomb that could blow at any minute, but he made it. 

We awoke at 3:30 a.m. to make our way to the hospital. The air was heavy and warm and a nearly full moon dispelled the haze in quiet peace. We had our eyes on that beautiful moon all the way to the hospital. It felt so profound that I stopped to take a picture right before we walked through the hospital's revolving doors. As soon as we walked in, it was busy, busy, busy getting prepped right up to the moment IronMan was wheeled away from me. He was nervous about the anesthesia, and even joked with the surgeon prior if they could work something out where he could stay awake for the procedure because he was worried he might not wake up. The answer was clearly no. 😜 This was probably his biggest source of anxiety about the surgery, but God knew that, and sent a little help. Anesthesiologist Traci was the last of the professionals to see him, and after she went through all the details of what she would be doing, she said, "Now, there's one more thing I want to do. I'm going to pray with you." She didn't ask permission. She just did it. Our daughter said she must have been prompted by the Holy Spirit and I couldn't agree more. God had everything completely covered and IronMan knew the person in charge of making sure he would "wake up" was a Jesus-follower who had taken time to pray with him. ❤️

I made my way to the surgical waiting room and found a spot to camp out for a few hours. I ate a few crackers, tried to read a book...then tried to read another book, and a dear friend started texting me. She was my life-saver in the waiting room, and helped me feel a little less alone. She helped me pass the time by sending me pictures of her morning errands and making me laugh. I kept checking the monitor in the waiting room that kept loved ones apprised as to when the surgery would be over and the patient would be in recovery, sent to a room, or sent home. There was a wife in the waiting room that must have had fifteen or twenty people waiting with her. It seemed like groups of people came in waves to talk, laugh, and encourage her. Her husband was having complex heart surgery and a nurse came in the waiting room to update them about every 45 minutes. There was a middle-aged mom working from her computer who was waiting for her daughter's back surgery to conclude. Around the time IronMan's surgery was scheduled to finish, a young mother and son sat down on the other side of the waiting area. The mom was in tears, and her little boy had his Teddy bear. I could tell she was trying to be strong. I heard whispers that there was a motorcycle accident. My phone chimed and I had a text to go to the nurse's station. The nurse put me in a consultation room where I continued to wait. 

I wondered how many people sat at this very same table and received devastating or difficult news. How many people were told their loved one didn't survive or their surgery didn't go as expected? They were sitting in the same chairs around the same table where I was sitting. Perhaps someone would be exactly where I was later in the day and would receive heartbreaking information like the young mother with her son or the wife of the heart patient. The pretty sliding glass doors that closed off the room offered little protection of keeping out such news. It was sobering. I thought of the moon and how it was kind of guiding our way to the hospital. God knows how much IronMan and I both love His moon. It was right there when we walked into the hospital in the early morning hours hovering as a reminder that the One who holds the moon holds us, too. I thought of Traci and how she was prompted to pray, and that sweet prayer was minutes before I kissed IronMan and said, "See you soon! You're going to be okay!" as they wheeled him down the hallway through the folding doors. I thought of IronMan's amazing surgeon, and how he came with glowing recommendations because he was a "guru" in this field (slang according to Webster meaning "trusted expert, master, or go-to guide in a specific area"). I thought, too, that this was not emergency surgery, and the risk of complications was much lower. I thought, prayed, surrendered, and waited. 

The surgeon finally came in. He told me everything went well, but he found some interesting things. Without going into detail, let's just say that without a doubt, this surgery was needed and we are so grateful that IronMan chose to have it and made it to the elective surgery date. Since his hospital stay in March, he had been dealing with daily pain, some days were worse than others, but there was continual pain. He was not well. I felt so relieved that the surgery was over and quickly messaged family and a few close friends to update them. When I was finally cleared to see IronMan in the recovery room, he was extremely groggy. He turned his head towards me, opened his eyes about halfway and whispered in my ear, "I woke up!" 

There were no rooms readily available in the hospital, so it was a long wait in the recovery area before IronMan was given a room of his own. He was so grateful to get there and immediately everything felt different from March. The first thing he was told to do in the room was order something to eat. In March, he could not eat at all. This time, there were still IV's and other tubes and machines, and lots and lots of pain (oh my!), but when you are experiencing pain because you are recovering from the removal of what was making you sick, it is much different than the pain of making the sick thing less inflamed so you can get by. RECOVERY PAIN IS SUFFERING BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING THROUGH THE PROCESS OF TRUE HEALING. Recovery pain is suffering, but you will reach the other side. You will improve. You will be better, and it won't always be this way. You might not be exactly whole, because sometimes the sickness needs removed (whatever that looks like), but you will be better. The March hospital stay felt dark and hard because we didn't understand what was going on in IronMan's body. The hospital stay for surgery felt hopeful and brighter, even though there was pain, because something had been put behind him. With each day, the pain will improve. March was an emergency thrust upon us that derailed our lives for several weeks. The scheduled surgery, although disruptive, was something we could be a little more prepared for. Sometimes, you have to surrender yourself to surgical precision of the body...  and of the soul. To be sure, both are painful. Some surgical precision is more painful than others, and let's face it soul-surgery doesn't have pain meds readily available to help manage it (not for most people anyway). As IronMan was recovering in the hospital, Matthew 9 kept going through my head when the pharisees challenged Jesus disciples, "Why does Jesus eat with such scum?" Those pharisees had all the answers, didn't they? (eye roll) Jesus responded, "Healthy people don't need a doctor, sick people do," and Jesus continued, "I want you to show MERCY, not offer SACRIFICES...I have come to call NOT those who think they are righteous, but those who KNOW they are sinners." (emphasis is mine from Matthew 9:11-13 NLT) If we approach this with transparency and humility, Jesus is talking about ALL OF US here. Remember that the process of true healing is costly, soul or body. There will be suffering and pain, but you won't stay stuck there forever. You will improve and you will get to the other side even if the road is or feels long. There's only ONE soul-surgeon that can be  described as a "guru" because He is THEEEE expert in the field. It is important for me to interject here that this allegory doesn't always feel like it holds up. We have been on the receiving end of horrific news that has no give. We have been years deep in healing of other kinds of trauma, as well, and I suspect that because life can be so life-ey, there will be more before it's all said and done. I do not share this as one who is naive and this certainly is not a platitude. I share this as one who tries to depend on Jesus when life is hard and when there are no answers. This time, the outcome was favorable (and we are so so grateful), but we have lived through when it has not been. Be kind to yourself, because the best you can do is your BROKEN-BEST. Thankfully, by His grace, it is enough. 

Always grace,

Shanda

p.s. Here is a picture of my IronMan (WHO WOKE UP 😄) recovering at home with a Lego to keep him busy at least for a short while. 

  

My Abuser is... DEAD

Obituaries. 

I've been searching them for years. I'm sure that might sound morbid, and perhaps it is, but what I was searching for wasn't death, but... PEACE. I knew I would eventually discover that my tormentor and abuser, my biological father, had died. No one lives forever even if they try to in your nightmares. His increasing age along with years of alcohol abuse and pack-a-day habit led me to keep digging. I heard a rumor a couple of years ago that he had died. I never found an obituary, so I thought the information was a mistake or miscommunication. His current address was still listed online, as well, so I dismissed the information. A couple of weeks ago, I continued my random (yet routine) online search. No obituary. Something prompted me to keep searching. I proceeded by looking up   addresses just in case he moved. Several websites had his name, current age- 78, last known addresses, and listed people with whom he might be associated. I was about to give up, but then came across a lone obscure website. His name. "DECEASED. Age-74." No addresses. No people. No dates. No associations to verify that this was actually him. It was, however, the first thing I'd ever come across that might verify the rumor of his death that I had received a few years prior, so I kept on. I checked the county records where I believed he last resided to see if a death notice had been posted. No luck. I would have to go to the courthouse, pay their fees, and also prove that I was his biological daughter, and I didn't know if I had that in me. It would have been a huge ask of myself. I got IronMan involved and he paid to access the obscure website that listed my biological father as deceased. Even behind the paywall, there was no additional information. I kept thinking to myself, this is just the way of it. Why would I ever expect anything to be clear? Of course it would be like this and wouldn't be simple. I was conflicted with weird emotions of not knowing how to feel. Is he dead? Is he alive? How in the world would I even begin to process the "probably" but we don't know for sure? I was home alone and I shouted out loud, "Tell me, SOMEONE, how to feel!" There was no PEACE. 

Several years ago, a stranger messaged me on Facebook 0n behalf of my biological father (I will call her Jane to protect her real identity). She told me that she had been looking for me. My father told her all about me (what he knew anyway). She assured me in desperation, "He's a changed man! Will you please pray HARD about contacting him?" She sent a picture of him playing with her small kitten as if that would be evidence I could weigh against the life I lived with this man. Those hands that gently held her kitten were never gentle with me. I told her that I was sincerely glad he had someone in his life that cared about him, but to me he was a monster who had damaged me for life by his violence against me and my mother. I would not be reaching out. He left my life for the most part when I was nineteen due to the long, overdue divorce. I only saw him a handful of times when I was in college. After I had been married for a few years, I started to feel GUILT about being the "only person" that could possibly reach him. Christian evangelicalism had poisoned my perspective at the time and I now understand that it would have been OKAY, possibly even necessary, to protect myself, but I didn't then. That unpacking is for another time, but it informed my decision-making in my young adult life. It felt more like an "eternal" pressure that I was responsible for him, my father...my ABUSER. Regardless, I knew I wouldn't have PEACE if I didn't try. IronMan supported me, and we met my father two or three times, but it was abundantly clear fairly quickly that he had not changed... at all. I tried to facilitate some type of closure with him from the years of HORROR while simultaneously trying to extend grace so I could move on. I didn't know the clinical terminology at the time, but it was a textbook example of gaslighting. He abused me the entirety of my growing-up years, and he not only denied it, but made me feel it was wholly my fault. The good news is that I finally felt RELEASED from the burden that he needed ME to save him from something. As a result, I physically distanced myself from him. However, traumatic nightmares continued  into my mid-life. The nightmarish daydreams still continue, but when I'm awake, I have a little more control to try to change the re-runs in my mind. It might not make sense to some why I would care if this man was still living. I can't explain it, and I believe each victim will likely have a different experience. For many years, I thought it would be a relief to find out he could no longer come after me to hurt me or try to kill me. It became important for me to know if this man was dead or alive and HOW I would verify that beyond doubt. The random message that I had received from Jane seven years prior came to mind. 

I tried to prepare myself for several different outcomes. If I contacted Jane, maybe she wouldn't respond at all? If she did respond, was I prepared for the conversation? I wasn't sure, but I was at a dead end, and this seemed like the only real possibility to get the information I was seeking. Heart pounding, I courageously typed, "Hello, Jane. I know this is out of the blue, but would you be willing to answer a few questions for me?" In less than five minutes my notifications chimed. She had kindly responded. I apologized for the possible abruptness of my question, but proceeded, "Did my father pass away?" Her immediate response unexpectedly jolted me, "Yes." This is a person that evidently cared about my father. As far as I knew, she hadn't experienced the man that I did, and the manner of which I asked her for difficult details could honor her for her extension of kindness that she gave to another person no matter who it was... even if it was HIM. I would also try to dig deep and honor the fact that he was a human being created by God. I could offer that, albeit undeserved, crumb as his biological daughter as the conversation continued. THAT IS GRACE. It turns out, my father wasn't anywhere near his last known address which is likely why I was having trouble finding a death notice or obituary. He had been living in an RV for a few years and after some kind of disagreement (allegedly not his fault- bless Jane for thinking this) was kicked out of the RV park where he lived in Georgia (where Jane had met him) and had to move to Alabama to a different RV park. I couldn't quite figure out how he managed such a move in his seventies, failing health, and mostly alone, but apparently he had some "truck driver friends" that helped as they were passing through. He had gotten into a serious fight a few years prior to all of this (also allegedly not his fault) that resulted in serious bodily injuries and left him with scars on his face. He still smoked like a "freight train," and all I could think of were his yellow teeth, pungent breath, and nicotine stained walls in the house where I grew up. As an adult, I've often thought that I must have reeked like stale-alcohol vomit and cigarette smoke when I went to school as a child, but it was truly the least of ALL of it. The conversation continued and revealed that he had suffered with Alzheimer's. The image became sad as I questioned how a man in his seventies living in an old RV with a broken mind could care for his own basic needs. Jane is the only person I was aware of that had helped him in a practical way, and she lived a state away from him. As for the very end of his life, it was difficult to piece together conflicting details, but with certainty, he died alone. The state of Alabama took over upon his death, and according to my research, he was either cremated and ashes scattered, or he was buried in an unmarked grave. That was the sum of his seventy-four years. Jane told me she saved a few items that were his and asked if I wanted them: two necklaces, a couple of broken watches, and a harmonica that belonged to his father. I told her, initially, that I would accept them. The irony wasn't lost on me- watches that were once used to mark time that had stopped, necklaces he wore around his neck, when his hands were around mine? These were things he wore against his skin, and wore daily. It felt way too intimate. I had a sinking feeling and felt nauseous. Accepting his personal things was a dignity I felt I could not give him. I messaged Jane and told her to keep the items. Perhaps they were even sentimental to her? I thanked her for taking care of him (and I meant it), and I also thanked her for taking the time to kindly answer my questions, and the conversation ended. 

...Then out of nowhere from a soul-deep place I wept and wept... and wept. Something broke inside of me. The man who nearly destroyed me was dead. It wasn't the relief or peace I thought it would be. Flashes of his abuse projected scenes through my mind as waves of anger, blame, and regret gripped me. I wept for what should have been, the father I SHOULD HAVE had. There was no tenderness or care in him. He was a selfish hothead that created an atmosphere of violence in our home. I didn't feel safe or secure, ever. How empowered he must have felt making me flinch and cower under his fist and by his words. He threatened to kill me so many times, and I believed him. My own father was the SOURCE of my fear. I had no father to swoop me up and carry me on his shoulders, no father to teach me how to ride a bike, dribble a basketball, or hit a softball. The shame in gym class and on the playground was embarrassing, and added to my already gaping lack. I had no father to play games with me or sit down to have a tea party with me and my dolls. He didn't read me bedtime stories, tuck me in, or give me hugs and kisses goodnight. He didn't train me, encourage me, or give me guidance. The truth is, I wouldn't have minded the lack in these things if the void was covered in love, but it wasn't. The only things he DID give me were violence and abuse in nearly every form. Whatever was broken in this man is what wielded the weapon that broke me. He was a thief that robbed me of the childhood that should have been and left me with the one that shouldn't. And... I... wept. Sadly, he single-handedly destroyed every gift he did have in his life and ended up as scattered ashes in an unknown grave without an obituary. Was it worth it? He, to say the least, did not leave people BETTER for being in their lives, with the possible exception of Jane, and that's heartbreaking. He was a human being born a tiny baby that needed fed, bathed, dressed, and diapered. He learned to crawl, toddle, run, and talk. He made his way and made his choices... for seventy-four years. He met a sad, broken-minded end, and died alone, NOT surrounded by love, and for that, too, I wept. So maybe I don't have the PEACE I was searching for in this, but I have found a way to GRACE. I can try to lay him to rest in my heart and know I offered him some measure of human dignity by honoring Jane, the person that did care about him, and for me, that matters more than peace in this. All of this was further evidence of what I know deep in my soul-bones that EVERYTHING IS GRACE, and in every single aspect of humanity, it is THE most important thing.

Always grace,

Shanda

p.s. For those who don't know my whole story, I have a BEAUTIFUL redeeming father story that I shared several years ago. It's called "Twice Adopted" and you can FIND IT HERE.  I miss my adopted dad every single day, and I am grateful for his generous, selfless love. I'll see you in a minute, Dad. 🤍

DARKNESS

God on trial.

The maker of stars and dolphins, mountains and beach waves, sunsets and auroras, brown eyes and laughter... GOD... on trial.

Prosecutor Pilate put Jesus in the hot seat and found him without fault, declared him INNOCENT, had him slapped around a bit to satiate the hungering crowd, yet the mob ROARED. Chump Pilate washed his hands to clean soul stains he could never cleanse himself. Scoundrel Barabbas was released from his condemnation so ALL OF US scoundrels could ultimately be released from ours.

Cat o' Nine Tails whipped metal barbs and ripped flesh in chunks from strong carpenter's frame, thorny crown pressed deep, body shocked. People shamed, spit, scorned, turned away. Most don't make it to the beam. Most die in the "chambers" of Roman-handed-hell. But Jesus made it to the beam he couldn't carry up to the hill on his own, because carrying US and that beam at the same time was too much, so…

HE. CARRIED. US.

Iron spiked his arms across cypress, and “King of the Jews” scratched out in olive wood hung above his battered flesh. Sour drink. Staggered breaths. Surrendered spirit. It was finished.

FINISHED.

The temple curtain that hung heavy and thick was rent in two. Graves opened. Earth quaked. Sky was pitch as night. Darkness. This is what happens when you kill God.

DARKNESS.

Palm Sunday From a Hospital Room

A week ago Saturday we were riding the zoo train with our four-year-old grandson and soaking up the sunshine alongside the giraffes and llamas. Two short days later my husband was battling the most severe pain I have ever seen anyone experience in my life due to complications from diverticulitis. From our bedroom floor... to the ER... to an extended stay in the hospital, I am quickly reminded that sometimes life happens in unexpected whirlwinds. It's a hijacking of sorts. Freak accidents, ambulance rides, roses draped across caskets, the shocking diagnosis, chronic illness, horrific phone call, or jarring discovery, and suddenly, you are in the territory of life-disrupted. No matter what you wish or will, it won't give. Everything is now dictated by the disruption and you obey, because you have to. 

I keep looking at the wipe-off board in the hospital room to remember the date. Days melt into each other in hospital rooms. The day of the week isn't written on this particular board, so I have had to mentally track to figure out the day of the week. Today is Sunday. Yes. It's Sunday, Palm Sunday to be exact. I'm trying to be mindful of Holy Week and the significance of the worship and Hosannas over two-thousand years ago. "Jesus, save us." Save us from this old broken world and these broken bodies and broken people. Save us from the heart-hurts and betrayals, rejections and not-enoughs. Save us... from... ourselves. When life catapults us into life-disrupted, have mercy and please... save us. If that saving only looks like Presence, help it to be enough. 

A dear friend texted me a photo she took on their way home from church. There were two simple crosses made out of folded palm fronds. All I could think of were those branches laid down like a royal carpet and waved to hail the King while a simple donkey carried him into the last city he would ever visit before he surrendered to his own murder. Those two little palm leaf crosses remind me of all of those hosannas shouting and crying out for salvation, the kind of salvation we don't even truly know we need. Jesus knew and from his soul he cried looking over the city, "Oh Jerusalem." Oh me. Oh you. Hosannah! Save us... even in this hospital room.

Always grace,

Shanda 

Love, Family, and an On-time Christmas Wish

 

The day after Christmas still holds a little magic of the season for me. I try to let it linger and speak. Days leading up to Christmas Eve and Christmas day are always busy, but the unique quiet of the 26th holds a peace that we are not yet so far removed that we can't just be HERE to soak it in for a few moments longer. Last week, my oldest daughter was telling me how she shared Dolly Parton's "Coat of Many Colors" with her little boy and how much he enjoyed the story. She wanted him to tell me how much it impacted him from his four-year-old perspective. He proceeded to explain how Dolly's mother was given a box of rags and she made a coat from it for her little girl because she didn't have one. My daughter asked him in his re-telling to me, "Don't you just LOVE Dolly?" He paused. As serious as he could be, "But she's not family. She's  a stranger." I was stunned. My four-year-old grandson was onto something. This season, I have been teaching him John 3:16. He has not questioned God's love one single time, and every morning he is here with me we pray together, "Thank you for loving us, Jesus. We love YOU, Jesus." My sweet little guy here knows Jesus is not a stranger. He came, so that every single one of us would have someone to belong TO... to be known, to be LOVED. We are His. We have a place. We have a FAMILY. His love, in ways we have no idea in a glass-darkly kind of way, has done it ALL, and someday we will REALLY know everything that that means. For now, I linger and let the truth that I do know sink down into my soul-bones... in a quiet house with second-day Christmas brunch, Starbucks Christmas blend in my cup, by candlelight and firelight... and with that I will still say (on the 26th) Merry Christmas. It's not a Christmas wish that is late to me, rather right on time. ❤️

Always grace,

Shanda