From
the looks of this blog, you would think that I have been away from preaching
for quite a long time. Actually not. My discipline has simply lagged. But I
have been away from the pulpit of Seneca Presbyterian Church for six weeks.
Why? I needed to face the challenge of the orthopedic surgeon’s knife!
On May 28 I underwent shoulder
replacement surgery. The leaders of Seneca Presbyterian were graciously
generous with me, allowing me six weeks for recuperation. Before the fact, I
wondered if I would need them. After the fact, I know I did. I returned to work
this week and will be back in the pulpit this Sunday – if my brain remembers
how to preach. That’s what I’m trying to work on in these final days. And
trying to put down in words the memories of my experience.
I started experiencing pain in
my left shoulder almost two years ago. When I finally consulted with doctors, I
discovered that I had osteo-arthritis in that shoulder. An injection and
physical therapy came after the diagnosis. An unsuccessful trial with
medication came about ten months later, followed by another injection and the
word from two surgeons that my shoulder was “surgically ready.”
I had often heard that the rule
of thumb for joint replacement is to put it off until you simply cannot stand
it. Yet the advice I was getting seemed the opposite. “Your shoulder is not
going to get any better on its own. The sooner you do the surgery, the greater
the chance for a good outcome. And the sooner you do it, the sooner it’s done.”
So I agreed.
Now that six weeks have passed,
I can honestly say the experience was tougher than I imagined. I guess I did
not want to believe what my surgeon said as he exited my pre-op room: “Shoulders
are rough.” In those first days, my body seemed to be overwhelmed with the
trauma inflicted upon it. It was not so much the pain from the shoulder –
though I did get a feel for that pain during a “break through” moment as the
medication was being adjusted during the first days post-op. The challenge was
more systemic. Every part of my body seemed to be in focused protest. My tongue
was raw – like it had been burnt or frozen or both. Nothing tasted right. A
simple trip from the bed to the bath was an ordeal. I became much too
acquainted with the hospital’s green barf bags that looked like mini-dunce
caps. And a full night’s sleep became an elusive dream. Watching the clock pass
from 2 to 3 to 4 to 5 a.m. isn’t easy. Sometimes my prayer was simple: God,
please let me sleep. Even newborn babes can do that.
Throughout the ordeal and into
the recovery, I kept a list of cryptic notes to remind me of thoughts and
experiences that I might want to reflect on later. Cryptic they were – because
some make little to no sense now. But here are some that do.
- It’s amazing what people will
tell you when you tell them you are about to undergo major surgery. It
seems everyone has a story to share – of what happened to them or to their
sister or to their distant cousin. We seem to have a strong instinct for
grounding the experience of others in our own. Ironically, when you are
facing the unknown, you actually do crave other people’s stories. Anything
to fill the void of what to expect. But this I have learned about sharing
personal stories: there is no need to state the obvious. “It’s really
going to hurt.” Or “I hear physical therapy is really rough.” No matter
what your experience, it’s better to be encouragingly realistic. And when
hearing personal stories, it’s better to just listen. Everyone’s story is
different. Everyone’s experience will be different too.
- I entered this journey
expecting it to be an exercise in empathy. And it was. So many of the
saints at Seneca Presbyterian Church have been through joint replacement. Through
this experience, I am now better able to understand theirs. Yet so many of
my people endure far greater challenges than just a few weeks of misery
post-op. For their sake, I hope my exercise in empathy lasts. I hope I can
remember what it’s like to truly have no appetite; how eating can be an
ordeal rather than a delight because nothing tastes right; how it feels to
wake up wondering just what the day will bring because it is so totally
outside your control.
- Ironically, my recuperative instincts held little desire for visitors. I felt lousy. I looked lousy. I really had no energy to engage others. It is ironic because I’m often the one doing the visiting in the hours and days post-op. As I existed in a weakened state, I actually wondered if I had imposed myself on others inconsiderately. The wonder came with a bit of guilt, too. Yet when I was coaxed and encouraged to receive the genuine well-wishers who came my way, I had to admit in hind-sight that their visits were a blessing. They provided an escape from reality for a brief moment. And they forced me to summon up energy I did not know I had. When visiting others now, I shall do my best to remember that the patient can be putting on a better face than their reality dictates. While that can be a blessing, I need to listen for the clues when it is not.
- There is no better medicine
than humor that comes from a glad heart, so I am grateful for all who
brought laughter into my overshadowed existence, especially during those
early days. This is not just any humor – and certainly not the kind that
makes light of current infirmities. The distinction is subtle but
important. This is humor that comes from a heart filled with the kind of joy
that draws the sufferer into a different realm. It is a much needed
reminder of a world that is “normal”; a world that is free from pain and
discomfort. It is a glimpse of
hope. It is assurance that recovery will come. And it is a precious gift for
those who possess the ability to express it.
Throughout
these weeks, I always knew I would get better. I know too many who live without
that assurance. So my experience only deepens my prayer for all who struggle
with pain, limitations, fear, and despair. May they find a simple thing that
brings joy every day, if only for a moment. For that is God.
I can’t end this blog without a
big thank you to all my friends near and far, but especially the saints of
Seneca Presbyterian Church. Over 100 cards filled my mail box. The picture included at the top of this post is
only a glimpse. Each one was a blessing and a sign of the remarkable grace of
God expressed in our family of faith.
