No Ifs, Ands, or But(t)s
In three days, the nurse will ask me to count to ten while the anesthesia kicks in. I usually try to make it to five, but by three, I’m out.
I’m having a proctocolectomy - the removal of the large intestine, rectum and anus. Yup. This whole section of my body has not been working and has been without motility for a long time. The contraction and relaxation of the muscles in the large intestine, known as peristalsis, have not been working properly. So my surgeon will be removing all of it, leaving only the small intestine leading to a small opening on my stomach known as a stoma (which they created last year around this time).
Why am I telling you this? That’s a good question. I have three reasons:
Writing helps me process. Every morning, I write in a journal and get my thoughts out of my head onto paper. I use it as a prayer, and I write to God, telling him my fears, joys, confusions, excitements, and sadness. I pour out my heart, and it helps me see what is there, letting me open myself to God’s wisdom and direction in my life.
I value transparency. As vulnerable as it can feel, I value being known and knowing others. Some things will always remain private and guarded in my heart and my relationships, but there are many things I can share that may help others feel less alone. I want to be that kind of person.
Writing is the gift I offer. Writing usually feels small, like a gift offered that won’t accomplish much. But when offered to God, He does something with it that I can’t explain. People send me messages about things they find meaningful in my writing, and I’m surprised. I no longer self-deprecate, but I also don’t feel confident that what I create is good. I have no idea what will come of any of this, but I have sensed for a long time that writing is the gift that God has given me to share. So I do, and I leave the outcome up to God.
The surgery will last six hours, and my surgeon has brought in a retired surgeon to assist her. He has three decades of experience, so she has requested his help as she has put together a team. I’m grateful. I’ve had pain and issues with my intestines my whole life. It got worse when I was diagnosed with Endometriosis in 1994, and 7 surgeries later, I’ve been on pain management for the past 24 years. Last year’s ileostomy surgery was surgery #8, and on Tuesday, this will be the 9th, and I’m hoping it will be the last.
There’s a fine line between hope and despair, and for those of you who live with chronic illness or pain or unresolved relationships or losses in your life, you understand that some days the line feels thick and impenetrable and other days, paper-thin. Hoping for a good outcome of this surgery is something that people wish for me, that I wish for, and that is very possible and the very purpose of this surgery. However, hoping in the outcome is a very different thing.
I’ve been focusing on the perspective that my hope needs to be in God, but that I can still hope for a good outcome.
Eugene Peterson writes this in his book, “A Long Obedience in the Same Direction”:
“And hoping is not dreaming. It is not spinning an illusion of fantasy to protect us from our boredom or our pain. It means a confident, alert expectation that God will do what he said he will do. It is imagination put in the harness of faith. It is a willingness to let him do it his way and in his time. It is the opposite of making plans that we demand that God put into effect, telling him both how and when to do it. That is not hoping in God but bullying God.” (p. 140)
Whenever I start to put my hope in this surgery and mind-wander into the future wondering if I will be able to hike mountains again, ride a bike, go to work, make plans and follow through, be off this strong pain medication . . . I begin to feel the anxiety of the shaky foundation. Anything could happen. The surgery could fix things, but there could be complications, and there could be bigger issues they find; anything is possible. What if pain returns after my recovery? What if other issues come up? I’ve had chronic pain issues for most of my life, and nothing has fixed it yet. I’m 54 years old. To hope in surgery is to demand that my happiness, my future, and my wholeness depend on a physical procedure. That’s a lot of pressure on the surgeons, and that’s a lot of hope in an uncertain thing.
Instead, I hope in God, in his faithful and proven promise that he will be with me, no matter what, that he loves and values me as I am, and that he created me with gifts and talents and a purpose for my life that is beyond the limitations of pain or illness. My life has been full and has included pain. I have spent an extraordinary amount of time in pain management and taking medication, doctor’s appointments, procedures, and recovery times. And in all of it, God has been with me, providing a peace that is beyond understanding, a sense of purpose that draws me out of bed in the morning, and a love for others that he continues to grow. I once heard someone refer to pain as a renovation in our lives. It is messy, it takes time, and it is costly, but when it is done, it creates room, more space, and more accommodation for ourselves and others. I can invite others to talk about their pain because I have room for it now.
I’m looking forward to my recovery time of 12 weeks. I’ve heard that it’s tough and that the wounds take a long time to close as there will be stitches on my abdomen and the ole' exit. But I’m also looking forward to what God will do. I’ve got crafts ready, books, movies, and a few friends who I can invite to come over and play games when I feel well enough. I’ve been managing pain from a broken body for a long time, and this time, the pain will be from a surgery that is intended to fix the problem. So there is room to hope for an easier life in the future, possibly pain-free, but my hope will remain IN God, the author and finisher of my faith. No ifs, ands or but(ts)! 😊