Stress and Thanksgiving Eve

We've made it to Thanksgiving Eve and Ben is a far cry better than he was on Sunday, when I posted last.  Though, he's vocalized that he thought he'd feel better tonight than he is right now, and it puzzles him.  I made him some green tea with ginger to bring him calm to the nausea.  It smells terrible to me, but apparently it helped in some way.

I am completely stressed out. Somehow, I managed to forget all about the power bill.  I guess it was buried under all the medical sheets we get from our insurance company telling us what they'll pay and what we pay.  Looking through those sheets is stressful in and of itself because so much of it is completely confusing.  Then trying to match sheets to visits is like wandering through a maze without a compass.  Sometimes I like the challenge of puzzling them out; right now, no thanks.  

I am thankful, though.  I am thankful that the God of all creation is in charge of all that happens.  I am thankful that He gave me such a wonderful, amazing family in all directions.  I am thankful that we have food, shelter, and transportation.  I am thankful for the Montgomery Cancer Center and the amazing people working there.  I could go on and on, but I've learned something lately -- there's no better way to adjust perspective than to start giving the LORD thanks for everything, even the hard stuff.

FLASHBACK:

The date is August 19 and the year is 2014.  It's very strange coming to the surgery center with Ben knowing that I'll be the one waiting as he goes through the procedure.  I'm very familiar with this place.  It came into being about 5 years after my ulcerative colitis diagnosis, when all my colonoscopy appointments moved here from the hospital.  The staff is wonderful and caring, in my experience.

We arrive at 12, but it's not until 2:30pm that they finally take Ben back for his two procedures.  Instead of sending me back out front, I'm ushered to the recovery area.  There I start a new crochet project -- one of a million works in progress -- and try to relax.  As with any procedure, there is danger.  I'm not unaware, so I'm a little focused on the what-ifs.  

Around 4pm, I start to get worried.  Each procedure is only supposed to take about 20 minutes, for a total of 40.  I've been here 1 1/2 hours.  There is a bit of a wait outside the examination rooms, so maybe that accounts for the other 50 minutes.  I reason away worry, and wait.

At 4:30pm, the doctor comes out.  I'm pretty much the only person there now.  It's very dark and lonely as the rain has rolled in outside.  One tiny window at the top of wall lets me know the day is dreary.  The doctor, whom I've know for 10 years, looks like he always does.  He sits beside me.

"Well, it's not an ulcer."  My mind immediately races to ulcerative colitis.  He doesn't give me time to settle there.  "We found a mass.  It looks like cancer."

It looks like cancer.  

I never dreamed or even envisioned such a statement being uttered to me.  I am not prepared for news of that magnitude.  I have absolutely no recollection of what I said.  It was probably some garbled variation of "how bad" while realizing that he won't speculate on that at all.  Tears sprung up into my eyes, and I had to swallow back my strongest emotions struggling to erupt from the cage of my self-control.

He told me that Ben would need surgery within the day, and he needed to rest, take pain relievers, and avoid eating.  He then led me to my sedated husband, who was lying on his side in the recovery room, still out cold.  The nurse pointed to a chair where I deposited my belongings, and I touched Ben.

As I did, it really hit me.  The man I loved has cancer.  And, there, my emotions raged in full control and I lost it.  I started sobbing.  The sweet nurse came to my side, helped me sit down, and held me while I cried.  I finally awkwardly reached for my faith and plainly stated, "God is in control."

She whispered sweetly in return.  "Yes He is, and He loves you."

Our exchange was interrupted by Ben's awakening.  But not only did he awake, but he was wild-eyed with pain.  So, I took the crushing blow to my emotions, crammed them in a box, sealed it with mental packing tape, and took the caregiver position which I am still maintaining today.  The box leaks every single day, and every single day I seal it back up with more mental packing tape.  

It took a good hour to get Ben into a state he could leave.  Generally the answer to colonoscopy gut pain is "fart", but that wasn't the pain relief answer to this pain question.  Nothing relieved this pain.  But he got to a point he could ride, so I took him home.  Once there, he fell into bed, I gave him pain relievers and water, and he rested.

He never asked of the outcome, so I didn't share that day.  I spent the night awake, looking at Ben with a knowledge that felt like a load of bricks sitting on my back.  The one person I always cried on was the one I was crying about.  And I spent the entire night, turned away from Ben, crying.

Psalm 56:8 (NASB) 
8 You have taken account of my wanderings; 
Put my tears in Your bottle.
Are they not in Your book? 

*Graphics at beginning of page is from the creator of the website Lilac & Lavendar.  All credit for the lovely carnation belongs to her.