Oh, the hospital... yet again.

Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,

You should count yourself lucky I was raised on the golden rule (treat others the way you want to be treated) or I would be greeting you very differently, my friend.  With each passing day, it becomes more apparent how harmful your intentions are for me.  You have thrown quite the daggers these past few days that I can't help but hold a harsh perspective of you. Why, you wonder? Eh, fine. I will play along for the sake of our friends.... Let's rewind a few days back:

Monday is a day I normally love.  As my Early Childhood counterparts know and understand, it is usually a day of rejuvination and a day of fueling your tank - ultimately, doing whatever the heck you want to do. How do I typically spend my Monday? As if you care to know, but again... I will play along. I enjoy sleeping in beyond the average joe.  If I wake up on a Monday before 11:00 AM, I am severely disappointed.  But once I am awake, I throw on a hat with no intention of showering (I'm a free spirit in multiple ways) and head out the door to a coffee shop, a bookstore, or the mall.  It is then that I grab a book to read, a pen to record my thoughts, my sketchbook to draw, my wallet to purchase, or my glasses to people watch. You know... all things refined.  However, this Monday was unpleasantly different.

United Hospital was the destination and my itinerary was packed with a further biopsy and a few tests.  I'm not quite sure how much more my veins will politely cooperate with all these needles poking into them, but man, have they been put to the test. The blue and green bruises certainly testify to that.  But there was no time to take pity over their grumblings... not with the regimented docket ahead.

So at 8:00 AM (no comment), I checked into the front desk and as I'm giving my information, the coordinator slaps a wristband on my left wrist for identification.  Sadly, no amusement park for me today.  She then explains to my dad and me that they're running a bit behind... at 8:00 AM. Interesting. Regardless, I sat in my chair waiting for the nurse to call my name. I did my best to pretend I could conduct the day like normal by bringing my sketchbook and all my books.  But sitting in that chair, knowing full well what's to come next, I just couldn't. So there I sat staring into the distance as Good Morning America shared the latest fashion trends.  I was quite offended; as if ABC should stop their entire broadcast to care about the predicament you have gotten me into.  I mean, it seems reasonable, wouldn't you say?

With a call of my name and a swift walk back to a private room, I was again charged to put on a hospital gown.  My face flushed red (surprise, surprise).  I thought SURELY with a procedure done only on my neck I wouldn't have to be exposed yet again, but it seems as if the nurses have it in for me too.  Stinks.  Nonetheless, I obeyed, and soon after, my doctor walked in the door.  It took but a minute to numb the area of my neck and he then inserted a decent-sized needle into my skin; all the while observing, along with myself, the action via ultrasound on a nearby monitor.  As he's sticking this needle into my skin, he asks, "So what was your favorite Super Bowl commercial?" Hmmm, yes, I also see this as the perfect time for small talk. Nevertheless, it took a mere 20 minutes to get through the biopsy and then I was off for my 10:30 exam.
This next test, I found myself facing quite the giant of a machine with a hole carved out in the middle that was just the right size to squeeze my body through.  The nurse went on to explain how she was going to draw blood, then mix the sample with radioactive material, and later pump it back into my veins.  Wow, that sounds to me like a really safe procedure.  She said it was to observe how the left ventricle of my heart responds to it... as if that was supposed to be of comfort (do you see how feisty I can be when I'm forced to function in the AM?).  I simply nodded and let her do her thing.  Once that was taken care of, she placed 3M foam circles (electrodes) on my body and connected those with wires already attached to a monitor.  It was then that the machine came down mere centimeters from my face and the hour-long test began.  "Don't move," was all she said.

Are you getting, Mr. Hodgkin's, just how hard this hour was for me?  I'll repeat myself.  I found myself strapped down to a cold table with radioactive fluid running through my body and wires attached all over me.  I'll walk you through a bit more.  I was not allowed to have anyone accompany me, nor was I allowed to wear any jewelry.  If you do not know, sir, I wear a ring on my right hand that has the phrase engraved, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step."  I received this ring as a gift from my mom and it has always exhorted me to take one step at time, even in the midst of fear, because the Lord gives us a sure hope that He will see us through.  So without a hand to hold or anything familiar nearby, I felt pretty alone.  And pretty scared.  I've always wondered why it took a hospital stay for some to give their hearts to Christ, and this past Monday, I caught a glimpse into their train of thought.  In regular life, you can get so caught up in your friends, emails, work projects and just recreation.  In it all, you always have the comfort of the familiar: the home you live in, the co-worker you sit next to, the coffee shop you frequent, the weekend plans you make with friends... but when you're stripped of all those things and all you have going for you is a heart monitor and you're left to stare at a white-tiled ceiling, you realize none of those comforts can reach you at that given moment.  None of those comforts have the power to wipe away whatever it is that's causing your decline of health.  All you want is someone to swoop in to save you, steal you away from the sterile environment, and heal you so you can once again enjoy the beauty of life. 

Mr. Hodgkin's, do you see where I'm going with this?  As I laid there, with no comfort in sight anytime soon, tears ran down my face and left puddles unabsorbed by the stainless steel table.  But let me share with you, sir, the saving faithfulness of my God.  The words of Isaiah 41:13 intruded my thoughts: "For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, 'Do not fear; I will help you.'"  In that moment, I clenched my right hand into the tightest fist possible and took God up on His Word.  My God is a God who cares for me so intimately that He would delight in stooping down to hold my hand with this simple, reassuring truth: He will help me.  You must see my God is not a God who lets me suffer and wishes me good luck; no, just the contrary.  My God instead says, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you...because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you..." (Isaiah 43:2,4a).  How grateful I am for this protective Father who is in this with me and will defend me at every turn.

....And that, Mr. Hodgkin's, is how you did not win that Monday.  The rest of the day went on without hiccup, and when I finally was able to walk through the door of my home that night, I stopped to take a deep breath and praised Jesus for yet again seeing me through. 

Yours Truly,
Heidi