My Darkest: Part 2

I began to despise my own body. I knew were it not for my lupus, I wouldn’t even be in this mess. I had plenty of friends go on to live their lives the way they saw fit, dating various guys, without any regard for faith. Why hadn’t they encountered such trouble? Why was it harder for me? I knew there was no going back.

Some time passed, and I went for another checkup. I decided to change doctors. I just couldn’t face the other doctor again. As I had feared, things progressed. My cells had begun to change. My doctor, however, could not have been more kind. Over our time together, I told her of various dating experiences. She seemed to want the best for me. Like some sort of personal cheerleader who was in on my biggest secret. Still cheering me on. Taking me for who I was, not for what I had done or what diagnosis I carried. My girlfriends had not been so kind. I knew there was snickering and chatter behind closed doors. I knew judgments had been made. I also knew there wasn’t much I could do about it. But not from my doctor. She even went on to tell me of a lawyer friend she wanted to set me up with. Extremely flattered, I knew I had found a true friend in her.

Knowing how guarded doctors typically are with their patients, I treasured her openness with me. It was as if God had sent her to me. Showing me grace. Showing me full acceptance. When I least deserved it. When I couldn’t even manage to accept myself.  

My time with her, however, was short lived as pathology reports continued to reveal progression and cellular changes. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was going on to develop cervical cancer as we had feared.

It didn’t look good.

She referred me on. It was time to see a gynecology/oncology surgeon.

A week later I stepped into a different waiting room. This was unlike any other waiting room I had entered. As I made my way to the front desk, I noted six women, mostly older, scattered throughout the room. Most of whom had no hair. Two covered their heads with decorative wear. One had a walker. Another made her way to the nurse, giving her a big hug. Two of the other women talked to one another, knowingly. There were bonds here. There was history here. And I could feel it.

I wondered if I was going to be like these women. Was I going to endure what they had? Was I going to lose my hair? Needing a distraction, I walked across the room to grab a cup of coffee. I caught a smile from a middle aged woman sitting next to a man, likely her husband. I sat down in my chair, bewildered. How had I gotten here? How had one poor decision landed me in such a place? I knew I had turned from my faith. But this. I had not suspected this.

Doing things my way seemed to be ruining everything.

I took a sip of my coffee and exhaled. I knew that I was going to have to live with the consequences of my decision, however that played out. I also knew I was about to find out exactly what that was going to look like.   

It was time to meet the surgeon.

I was brought back to a very large exam room with too many instruments laid out on a long counter, running the length of the room. My heart began to race, noting these were big instruments that I had not previously encountered. Likely painful ones. I heard myself let out a tiny whimper, clinging to the sides of the exam table, hoping they weren’t for me.  

A moment later, the surgeon entered with an assistant and a big smile. I immediately liked her. It surprised me how much I liked her as we talked about family and medicine. She sat on her stool, short hair bobbing and legs crossed, reviewing my records. Concerned, she let me know that my lupus was going to be a problem. I wasn’t going to be able to rid this on my own. The fact that I was on prednisone further complicated things, making any kind of healing difficult. She told me we were going to be good friends, and that I was going to be seeing her a lot. I wasn’t particularly happy to hear this. She went on to say I did not have cancer, but that things were still concerning. My reports revealed a type of cellular change called “neoplasia”, and if not addressed would certainly go on to become cancer. I wondered what it all meant. She went on to say I was going to need surgery. Laser surgery. And it was going to be painful.  

I swallowed hard, knowing I had little option but to concede. I had dealt with pain before. Life with lupus had taught me well how to handle discomfort of all kinds. I hoped I could handle this. I hoped it wouldn’t all be too much. Surgery sounded scary to me. The idea of anesthesia put my stomach in a knot. Was I going to be okay?

As I walked out of her office, while in part relieved at receiving what I felt to be good care, I also couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been playing it all wrong. Doing things my way was not the fun I thought it would be. It was not the carefree, lighthearted existence I imagined.

How was I going to get out of this?

Two weeks later, I opened my eyes in the post anesthesia care unit, or PACU. My mom was standing over my bed, smiling warmly at me. It took me a minute to recognize where I was, as the effects of the anesthesia were still wearing off. It felt good to have her on my side. More, I had made it through surgery. I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping the pain wouldn’t be too severe over the next few weeks. I knew I still had a good amount of pain medication in my system. Moments later my relief was replaced with feelings of nausea. A nurse came and administered some intravenous ondansetron. I exhaled, hoping I wouldn’t have to stay too long. As a patient, I didn’t do well with hospitals.

I just wanted to go home.

An hour passed and my mom made her way downstairs to grab some lunch. I was waking up now, and my thoughts were clearer.

I didn’t know it then, but while she was gone, something unexpected was about to occur.

I moved my legs around in my bed, growing uncomfortable for having been in the same position for too long. I glanced towards the nurses’ station and noted a man in blue scrubs. He began walking in my direction. I felt myself get nervous, noting he was attractive.

Was he coming over to me?

No, I was being silly.

He wasn’t my doctor.

Seconds later, he made his way over to my bedside.

He didn’t say more than a few words.

He smiled and said hello. He went on to tell me I was going to be alright.

He told me this wasn’t the end for me.

He told me he was engaged.

And that his fiancé had herpes.

He smiled and said there were guys like him out there.

And just as quickly as he came, he was gone.

I was stunned.

Did that really just happen?

More, how did he know I needed to hear just that?

Who was he?

Tears rolled down my cheeks. And for the first time in a long time, I said a prayer. A prayer of thanksgiving. His words had been so healing to me. So simple. And yet so healing.

It was as if God had sent him to me, letting me know I was not alone. I hadn’t been alone the whole time. The whole time he had been there with me, accepting me. In all my mess.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit”.

Hope had been infused.

He loved me at my darkest.

Even when I didn’t love me.

He was still chasing after me.