I cried when I heard the surgeon’s report. Ten days earlier I’d had a hip replacement. My tears made me realize how anxious I was to find out whether all was well. It was. The surgeon reported that a bone graft had been necessary. Even so, he got “excellent press fit” between the rebuilt hip socket and the new prosthesis, and in addition “good stability … with no tendency for dislocation.” He also managed to keep both legs at equal length — an outcome he had been doubtful about. I have been fortunate. I found the words to express my relief and gratitude in a long-remembered hymn:
Praise my soul the
King of Heaven
Ransomed, healed,
restored, forgiven
Who like me
His praise should sing
(Book of Praise #407)
This was not my first experience of surgery. From previous occasions, I have learned to make the event a time of inquiry, and to challenge myself to make something of the experience: Where will I find God here? How will I grow and change?
The alternative is panic, a sense of being more than vulnerable — of being a victim, helpless, passively subject to hospital procedures, and to the unspeakable invasion of the surgeon’s knife. I could not escape that sense completely, but at least I could invent a counter activity.
What did I find this time? The good news was everywhere. God was present in all kinds of people, in the unfolding of events, and present in myself: “You are a trooper … You are tough,” the nurses said when they had to repeat a procedure eight times, and later six times, before it would work, and I managed to stay calm and patient.
My husband Graham had an infected cold and cough, so he could neither take me to the hospital nor come to visit me while I was there. My daughter-in-law, Bev, took over. As a chaplain in long-term care, she was ideal for the task, moving surely through the protocol and the maze of floors and corridors, and staying by me reassuringly as long as she was allowed. The nurse who prepared me for surgery was someone I knew from church. She gave me a quick hug, and her answers to my questions were matter-of-fact and straightforward.
During surgery, I could hear voices. For this operation, the hospital’s policy is to encourage patients to choose spinal “freezing” rather than a general anaesthetic. They find this choice greatly improves the pace and quality of recovery. I complied. The sedation I was given blocked my other senses, but left my hearing intact. I assumed I was still being prepared for surgery when the attendant said: “It’s all done.” I was astonished. I had heard voices, but had neither felt nor seen what happened. One and a half hours of intense activity had passed like a dream.
In the ward where I spent the next four days, I was by a large window from which I could enjoy the changing sky, the city lights, the first snowfall and the sunshine.
There were three other women in the room; one a veteran patient and a “connector” who opened up the exchange of conversation among us. I warmed to her when I watched as her family gathered round, held hands and prayed together.
What do I make of all this? To receive so generous a measure of good things begs a response. The makings of my response have come to me gradually over the years. I have learned to look to times like this as an opportunity to bring about change in myself, to make even a small shift in some habit or attitude I deplore in myself, yet seem unable to leave behind. Lately, it was another hymn that showed me where I was stuck. It begins with a line I can joyfully endorse:
“Lord Jesus, you shall be my song as I journey.” (#665)
However I would baulk at the third verse:
As long as I live,
Jesus make me your servant
To carry your cross and to share
all your burdens and cares.
I was neither joyful nor willing to make such a sacrifice.
In hospital, where the shifts are seismic between being vulnerable and feeling secure, between suffering loss and being heaped with mercy, I sensed another shift in myself. Yes, I am more open now to joining the hymn writer’s expression of self-offering.
There were other shifts. I have lived with a child inside me that persists in mistrusting God: “God doesn’t wish me well. God is mean like an angry parent.” Now the child in me must give way as the adult self takes in the many ways God has come to me in compassion and healing.
The two shifts go together: I find that as I am more willing to let myself go and offer myself to God, I am able to trust more. I wonder at the process of being shaped into a child of God — slow, tortuous, uncomfortable, like giving birth. What a foolish child I have been! I have much to sing about, in the words of the Taizé song:
In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful
In the Lord I will rejoice
Look to God, do not be afraid
Lift up your voice, the Lord is near.
