Being
Human
“The
human body experiences a powerful gravitational pull in the direction
of hope. That is why the patient's hopes are the physician's hidden
ingredient in any prescription.”
Norman
Cousins
You may have noticed that
I didn't post yesterday. That is because I had a minor surgery that
required me to be at the hospital at 6 a.m. My friend, Isie, came and
took me and stayed until I was released around noon. She brought me
to the home of my friends, Ann and Ellen, who tucked me into bed and
treated me like a queen for the next 12 hours. I am fine; sore, but
fine. The experience of going into a modern hospital for surgery is
akin to the mythical trip to the underworld.
Everyone, without
exception, was fabulous to me—very kind, very gentle, and at the
same time concise and efficient. The new protocols placed on doctors
and nurses by HIPPA and the insurance companies are, to my mind,
repetitive and unnecessary, but apparently they reduce complications
and provide measurably better outcomes. I must have been asked one
hundred times for my name and birth date, what sort of surgery I was
having, what day it was, where I was, and when I had last eaten. I
was also asked questions about my mental health—had I ever seen a
psychiatrist and for what reason. I answered all these questions
honestly, and patiently—even the ones that seemed to have nothing
whatsoever to do with the procedure I was there to have.
The ride on a gurney,
from pre-op to the operating room was truly the labyrinthine trip to
the underworld—through multiple corridors, around many corners,
onto elevators and through locked doors. We're rarely lying on our
backs while moving through hallways—at least I'm not—so it felt
surreal. The operating room had five or six gigantic round lights
attached to the ceiling. Each one had a long proboscis pointing
toward the exceptionally narrow operating table. Everyone in the
room, there were about a dozen people, was gowned, hatted, masked,
gloved and booted—I could see only their eyes. What flashed through
my mind was the science fiction pictures of alien's curiously
examining a “specimen human.” Don't get me wrong—every one was
exceptionally kind to me. It's just the experience of being
completely at the mercy of others—something I'm unaccustomed to
being—that had my blood pressure higher than it's ever been.
In spite of this other-worldly experience, I feel exceptionally hopeful—maybe the
business of putting one's life into the hands of total strangers
means that all you have left is hope and trust. It truly
requires absolute surrender, which is always part of the spiritual
journey. On the way out, my wheelchair was pushed by a beautiful
young African American woman, mother of two young sons, who engaged
me in a deep dive about the difficulties she has faced coming to
Alabama from elsewhere. I told her it had been a difficult place for
me, too. We talked about sons and the perils of raising them. We
seemed to bond at the heart chakra in just the ten minutes or so that we
talked. Her husband is in the military, and their next post is to be
Hawaii. She is excited, as anyone would be. When she put me in the
car, she said, “I enjoyed you.” It seemed like a holy
encounter—one I could not have predicted or orchestrated. I have to
believe that surrender has its own blessings, and that trust opens
the heart so that something absolutely magical can come in. Thanks be
to God.
In the Spirit,
Jane
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