I don’t pretend to be a creative writer, but a friend once told me, “the battle for the soul is fought in metaphor.” Here is my clumsy attempt to process two of the last seven days.
In the dimmed lights of the pre-op room, the rising volume of my husband’s snoring, still uncompelling despite the huge heart swell of love one feels in such moments. Jangled.
Flashing through the memories of the past two days…
The sudden jolt of a smoothly moving week abruptly changing direction.
Tuesday night…The rush to the ER with my husband groaning from severe abdominal cramps.
An astonishingly quick diagnosis by CT-scan of “partial small bowel obstruction.”
The surgeon outlining the plan. “This usually resolves on its own, but we’re going to keep you overnight and probably through tomorrow.”
My husband phoning his PA then the OR to cancel Wednesday’s surgery, the first time ever in 21 years he’s done that.
Wednesday. The worst day. The only change from worse to miserable. Pouring the contents of my dear husband’s stomach from the plastic pink basin into the handicapped toilet.
Tension clenching my body, offering my feeble attempts to assuage the misery.
An NG tube starting to look like a good thing.
That evening, the surgeon pronouncing the updated plan. “If he does not miraculously improve overnight, I’m going to take him in tomorrow and have a look around.” (His tightened jaw revealed more concern than the seemingly casual statement.)
Warmth rising from heated concrete as I headed toward my car, the gentle glow of the sun-setting sky.
One of my husband’s partners driving by, pulling over, asking me what’s going on.
Narrating the last 48 hours to the kind-eyed hand surgeon. Thoughts of the terrifying unknown zoomed randomly around in my mind like the beam of a laser pointer handled by a 3-year-old.
I moved on toward my car, settled in the driver’s seat, flung my head back and let the tears rush. My mind went to the scary. A prayer formed. “Bring me back and keep me sane.”
After cycling that process several times, somewhat calmed, I started the car toward home.
A short way down the side road of the complex, I saw them. The tall skinny sunflowers, like a group of lanky yellow-haired schoolgirls, spreading their faces in broad freckled smiles, beckoning me to rest in their friendly glow.
Approaching, I saw their sweet companions, open-armed cornstalks gesturing grace, leafy greens bowing in praise. Round purple flowers and merry fat plants joined in an early summer country dance, thankful and full and flowing.
Then I saw the sign — The Sacred Garden.
What no eye has seen; nor ear heard, nor heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him — I Cor. 2:9
