On the Edge of What I Can't Escape

If you're just joining the party, I'd recommend reading my first post as a primer, which includes a few disclaimers and housekeeping items of note.
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I went to the hospital earlier this week for a routine pre-op physical. I met with a variety of practitioners - medical assistant, nurse, pharmacist, doctor, and lab tech - and their job was to collectively determine whether my body is physically strong and healthy enough to endure the trauma and rigors of the upcoming surgery.

Here's my CliffsNotes of their conclusions:

"Congratulations! We think you’re healthy enough endure having the unhealthy parts of you removed. We obviously can’t guarantee or say with any sort of certainty to what degree your healthy parts will be able to function after said removal of unhealthy parts, but we’re fairly confident at the end of it all you will, at minimum, still have a pulse. We wish you all the best."

Well, ain't that a bowl of chicken soup for the soul.

Prior to those conclusions, though, I had to wait. The medical assistant came in first to check vitals. Then I waited a few for the pharmacist to go over my medications. He was in and out in fairly short order. But then I waited about twenty minutes for the nurse to go over my medical history. Then I waited maybe another ten minutes for the doc. He left and then I waited some more. Finally, the lab tech came in to draw my blood and sent me on my way.

And each time I waited in between, I felt like I was one step away from transforming into Captain Hook. If you're not familiar with the movie Hook, Captain Hook cannot bear the sound of a ticking clock. When he hears the sound, he might as well be the pirate version of Bruce Banner turning into the Hulk. There's one scene where he hears ticking and basically loses his marbles. 

I sympathize with the man.

The exam room I was in had the loudest ticking clock I have heard in quite some time. I heard with clear distinction the passing of every single second, like the room had its own heartbeat. If the doc was pulling out a stethoscope to listen to my heart beat, I was there to listen to the heartbeat of that room. It took everything in me to stay seated on that exam table because what I really wanted to do was rip that clock off the wall and chuck the batteries out the window. I'm assuming hospitals (or anyone, for that matter) don't appreciate such destruction of their property, so thanks to the restraint of the Holy Spirit and good manners, I refrained from vandalism. I turned neither into Hook or the Hulk.

But I can still hear that ticking clock in my mind because I also hear the same ticking clock over my life, ever so loudly, one second at a time passing by. 

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. 

And it is that metaphorical clock especially that I want to rip off the wall and chuck the batteries out the window, to silence the reminder of time passing.

But all the while the clock is ticking, I'm waiting. And I'm waiting on the edge of something I can't escape.
In JRR Tolkien's final book of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Return of the King, he captures a moment between one of the captains of the guard, Beregond, and Pippin, a hobbit. For you non-Lord of the Rings fans, these two are some of the good guys. (In the movie, the conversation is rewritten to be between Gandalf and Pippin.) In the battle for Middle Earth, the worst is yet to happen. The two are waiting on the eve of the siege of Gondor, one of the last strongholds for the good guys. Pippin turns to Beregond and utters words I have mulled over countless times in the past two months, and I heard it in my mind while waiting in that exam room:

"I am no warrior at all and I dislike any thought of battle; but waiting on the edge of one that I can't escape is worst of all."

I am waiting on the edge of what I cannot escape. There are nine days between me and a drill being taken to my skull and a brain tumor being removed. Nine days between me and the possibility of losing everything.

Trust me, I feel the weight of that wait acutely. That waiting on the edge is worst of all.

But aren't we all waiting on the edge of something, whether for good or for ill? It's just that some of us are more aware of that waiting, that edge, than others. Due to life circumstances, some of us have ears tuned to the sound of that ticking clock. Being confronted by your own mortality will do that to you.

Hanging on my refrigerator is a quote from my all-time favorite sermon by any preacher I've ever heard. I can't tell you the number of times I've listened to it over the years, as it is now over a decade old. Louie Giglio, pastor of Passion City Church in Atlanta, preached the series during Advent in 2013, talking through what it means to wait on God, even in the darkest of seasons, using text from Exodus 13:17-21. He said, 

"You were created in the image of the Almighty God and you have a very brief window of time on Planet Earth, a very short opportunity, and in that window you have the chance to use your life to bring glory to God and to fall in love with Jesus. And here's the deal - if you get what you want when you want it, most often neither one of those things is going to happen. But in the waiting - that's where God gets glory, and in the waiting we learn that Jesus is really all we have and all we need."

In this waiting on the edge, I am having to learn yet again that Jesus is all I have and all I need. I am becoming very aware of just how short this window of opportunity on Planet Earth is. Like every other human being that's ever walked this planet, I have spiritual amnesia. I forget God's faithfulness, his kindness, his goodness, his mercy, his justice. I want the waiting to be over, and I want everything to work out just like I think it should. I somehow still want God to get glory and to fall in love with Jesus, but I want to do it without the uncertainty of waiting, without the problem of pain, without the discomfort of sitting in the unknown. 

But God - in his infinite wisdom - did not rig the world that way. Because he sees what I can't see. He knows what I don't know. As my former pastor used to say, "When you can't trace his hand, trust his heart." I can't allow the metaphorical clock over my life tick louder than the drumming heartbeat of God. Like the psalmists, I have to determine that I am waiting on God and God alone.

I'm not waiting for the outcome of surgery.

I'm not waiting for the effectiveness of chemo and radiation.

I'm not even waiting for a miracle.

I'm waiting for the Lord.

And by his grace and his mercy, I will find he is all I have - and all I need.

I'm not writing these words because I hold these words as firm convictions. Like the psalmist, these words are an exhortation for my own unsteady soul. As I heard a worship leader say years ago, "Sometimes we sing because we are sure, but sometimes we sing until we're sure." 

Sometimes I write because I'm sure, but sometimes I write until I am sure. It's usually the latter that is true most often.

So, I will keep telling myself, like the ticking of a clock, I will wait for you, Lord.

I will wait for you.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I will wait for you.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I will wait for you.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I will wait for you.

And in my waiting, may God get the glory and may I fall more in love with Jesus.

Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;

     Lord, hear my voice.

Let your ears be attentive

    to my cry for mercy.

If you, Lord, kept a record of sins,

    Lord, who could stand?

But with you there is forgiveness,

    so that we can, with reverence, serve you.

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,

    and in his word I put my hope.

I wait for the Lord

    more than watchmen wait for the morning,

    more than watchmen wait for the morning.

Israel, put your hope in the Lord,

    for with the Lord is unfailing love

    and with him is full redemption.

He himself will redeem Israel

    from all their sins. 

- Psalm 130

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Functional updates:

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

We're a little over a week from surgery. Some moments lately have felt like the walls are caving in mentally and other moments, I forget entirely I have cancer, even if fleetingly so. 

I started spending a few hours each day back at my own house - working, decompressing, regrouping, napping. It has proven vital to my mental health to have that space and privacy. I love my house and I miss it a lot, so it's been tremendously beneficial to be back in that space, even if for a few small chunks here and there.

It turns out I'm going to have to fire my hair stylist for the foreseeable future. I'm going to lose all my hair to surgery. That prospect has brought with it its own form of grief. As one friend commented, that's probably landing in such a tender spot because it's a "visual representation of the suck." Yes, so much suck right now. And now the suck will be on display for the world to see. 

I'll have a final set of MRIs early on April 15 and surgery then likely the morning of the 16th, but we won't know the official surgery time until the afternoon of the 15th. I will also have a final appointment with the neurosurgeon on the 15th. The surgery is expected to last 2-4 hours, and the goal is to remove as much of the tumor as we safely can without impairing anything. I will then be in the hospital 1-3 days, which I kind of marvel at. I want to be like, "You're going to cut out part of my skull, remove a large tumor, stitch me back together, and then potentially release me back into the wild after a one night stay?! Are you nuts?!" But such is modern medicine. And that's barring no complications. 

Like I mentioned previously, communication will be questionable in the days surrounding surgery, so I make no promises as to when I will be able to post updates for the good of the order. My brother has access to the blog if need be, but we're just going to have to wing it for a period of time, depending on how circumstances play out. Hang with me as we cross this next hurdle and then hit reset on another version of 'normal' life post-surgery.

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