Day 77. I have chosen to live intentionally toward the goals, dreams and desires God has placed on my heart for the last 90 days of 2019, pressing past fear, excuses and discomfort toward fullness of life. Goal: practicing presence.
“What is your full name? And your date of birth? Why are you here?” The questions came quickly as I sat feeling exposed in the sterile room, white lights glaring, barely wrapped in a paper thin hospital gown. “Would you like some socks? Here.” It was cold. “Again, there is no metal anywhere correct? Just your permanent retainer? Okay. Lay down and scoot all the way to the end of the table. I’ll get you a blanket. We want you to be comfortable.”
Comfortable? I lay still while they packed foam pieces around my head. They tightened a strap across my forehead and locked a brace around my neck. They placed a coil* over my head, leaving only a small grate through which I could see the glaring, white florescent lights with my “good eye.”
“We are going to do an MRI of your optic nerve, your brain and your cervical spine. We will do them with and without contrast. We will pull you out about halfway through to give you the dye for the contrast. You don’t have any allergies, right? Some people say it feels cold, others say it kind of burns a bit, and some people taste metal in their mouth. That’s all normal. Squeeze this ball if you need anything. The testing will take about 2.5 hours. We will need you to close your eyes. It will be hard, but during the tests on your optic nerve, you will have to keep your eyes still. This is very important. Do you understand?”
I looked at the ceiling one last time and closed my eyes as they rolled me into the tube. No music. Just the blaring, pounding, rhythmic pulsing of the MRI machine.Comfort? NO. Stillness? Yes.
As I lay there, I realized I could not remember the last time I had stopped to rest—to be still. Eighty hour work weeks had become the norm. And yet, as I contemplated the blindness in my left eye, and I feared the outcome for my vision in my right eye, I didn't care to see another expense report. I didn’t care to manage another program. I just wanted to see the faces of my children and my husband. How did i get to this place where so much of my energy had gone to my work? God, how did I lose focus so quickly on what is truly important? Comfort? No. Stillness? Yes. Stillness can be so disruptive.
Twenty-four hours later, I sat alone in a neurologist’s office. My husband was in another state completing his doctoral internship, eagerly awaiting my call. There I sat looking at the wall through blackness and haze.
The doctor walked into the room and sat at her computer without making eye contact. With her back to me, she began to read the MRI results aloud in medical jargon I could not comprehend. She read and proclaimed, “You have MS.” She read some more, and proclaimed again, “You have MS.” This happened three more times. “You have MS. You have MS. You have MS.” No eye contact. She paused. Stillness. Disruption.
She then turned and ordered me to stand up and walk heel to toe across the room, a task I had completed 100’s of times before. As I began, I fell to the floor. I stood and tried again, only to fall to the floor again. Why won’t my body do what I am telling it to do? That’s when she explained. “You have MS. A progressive, chronic, neurological disease for which there is no cure. Right now, you have optic neuritis, a swelling of your optic nerve, and you are in an active flare up. For the next week, you will go for steroid infusions each day. Hopefully, this will stop the flare up. After your treatment, your vision will continue to heal for 75 days. Whatever vision you have left at the end of 75 days is the vision you will have the rest of your life. Do you understand?”
Over the next week, I spent four hours each day in infusion. Over the coming weeks, the haze in my right eye would lift and the backness in my left eye, returned to white, then gray, then baby blue and pink. 75 days came and went, and God continued to heal my vision. Today, my left eye is impacted by a slight color fade and diminished depth perception, but that is all. I still have visual disturbances, however, that is just part of the disease.
I have been hospitalized many times since my diagnosis. Most days I am good, but some days I have lost my ability to walk. Some days I have lost my ability to speak. Other days, I have simply lost the ability to control my body. Each time, I think back to God’s faithfulness. Each time, as they pack the foam around my ears, tighten the strap across my forehead, and lock the coil over my head, I glance at the ceiling through the grate, I know God and I have some things to talk about. Sometimes it’s my anger and my questions. Sometimes it is my fear about the future or my fear that other’s will view me as weak or incapable. Sometimes I just need to listen. But always, it is an invitation to be present to what I am feeling, my own humanity, my desire for control and significance and my desire for more of God. Comfort? No. Stillness? Yes. Stillness can be so disruptive, so healing. “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.”
ACTION STEPS: Psalm 34:18, tells us that “The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 91 encourages us to find peace, covering and care in God’s presence in times of trouble.
Yesterday, we took a moment to reflect on where we have seen God show up in the midst of our troubles and losses, both now and in the past. Now, take a moment to sit with God. In stillness, what does God have to say to you about your present circumstance? If God is silent, we lean into what we know of God through scripture, community, history and our story.
No matter how dark your valley or how bright your sun in this season, God is with you, for you and still moving on your behalf. Open yourself to be present to the God who is already present to you. “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.”
