Life as I Know It: Enduring Well

I remember the hardest day in the hospital. It wasn't the first day, and it wasn't the last day. It was the day I hope will never forget.

That day I was scheduled to get a bedside spinal tap. After days of fighting to get this test done, we finally had a neurologist on our side who was able and willing to perform the procedure in order to test my spinal fluid and check for particular markers that would tell us whether I had Multiple Sclerosis or not.

It was my first weekend in the hospital, if I'm not mistaken. My mom had arrived by plane the evening before and had been fighting like a grizzly from the moment she arrived. I won't forget, though, seeing the most human part of her when she thought I was asleep.

Here she was across the country, caring for her baby that she hadn't seen in a year, who now could barely move. My mom, as fearsome and courageous as she was, and after putting her foot down with multiple doctors, making sure that necessary tests were being performed, and as she spent her days smiling angelically at me in my bed with the snowy trees that I had once marched under, with Books of Mormon and pamphlets as my vitality, day in and day out, as her background, I remember that first morning, when she thought I was sleeping, hearing her cry.

It was a strong cry- not desperate, but pained. She spoke with my daddy, I remember. She sobbed the words, "Gary, she can't move... she can't even hold... the phone... and the doctors... they aren't listening..."

I couldn't hear what my daddy said to her. Part of me thinks he cried as well; another part of me sees the tender man who is so careful with the women in his life, soothing her pains as he murmured words of faith, hope, and mutual sorrow over the wire. I felt that I was intruding on a moment of deep, intimate emotion for them- but I am grateful I experienced it. It showed me what it means to support your spouse in a marriage, through the hard times... to not be afraid to be vulnerable, but to look to each other for mutual peace and to be able to mourn together. It showed me what my parents' marriage is truly centered on- covenants with God, faith in Jesus Christ- and I learned what it means to hold to that, even in the most trying of circumstances.

I have exceptional parents. I love them, every day, for everything that they are for me- cheerleaders and friends, teachers and companions, examples and gift givers. Their lives are service. They are who I hope to become.

That morning, after hearing my mom cry through the bright white light pouring into the window from the snow storm outside, our white-haired friendly neurologist came in, ready to perform the spinal tap I had been so excited to receive.

Don't ask me why the thought of someone shoving a giant, metal needle into my spine, between vertebrae, penetrating my spinal chord, and pulling out a few cc's (okay, maybe a bit less) of fluid sounded thrilling to me.

It wasn't nearly as fun as I somehow had thought it would be.

I was laying in bed, and rolled my head around to greet our guest. He asked me to sit up- quite the feat at that point, considering my blood pressure was not steady- and face the window. My mom, ever brave for me, stood in front of me as I curled over the slidey desk that I ate my meals on, opening up the vertebrae in my lower back. She held my hand, and I told myself that I would go through with this, no matter the pain.

The anesthesia was administered, and I assumed that was the worst of it. It is a sickening feeling to have a needle in your spine. As the needle for withdrawal entered, a deep pain ebbed from the base of my back, on the inside of my bones, up to just below my shoulder blades. I groaned- then inhaled, and allowed him to keep going. He continued. I asked how much longer, as I laid my head on the table and tried to not shift around too much. He pushed in further- the pain deepened. I told him to go quickly. When he told me that he had just entered in far enough to withdraw spinal fluid at that point, and that the pain was not near over yet, I gave up. The needle was retracted, and I fell again onto my side, limp and defeated. I slept.

I wasn't strong enough to finish the first tap- the anesthesia wasn't strong enough for me, I guess. I do best with the strong stuff :)

As I slept, my mom fought. It was the weekend, there was a huge snowstorm, and doctors were not coming into the hospital. If I didn't get the tap performed that day, though, then the chances of us getting results and getting out of the hospital in a timely fashion were fading quickly- every day brought more unanswered questions. We were still hoping for a diagnosis at that point, and without the tap we couldn't move on to other illnesses.

So, she talked with the neurologist. For hours we waited to see if the anesthesiologists and specialists would come in- just for one patient, late on a Saturday night, in a snowstorm. Fat chance. We thought we had missed it- it wasn't going to happen. And then our nurse brought the good news- our sweet nurse, Gale, came in and said that I was to be transported down in a couple of hours. The doctor would come in and they would perform the tap. We whispered prayers of gratitude. I smiled a good bye to my roommate as I was pushed on my bed out of the room, and tried to ward off the feelings of loneliness that seemed to follow me at nighttime in that hospital.

I liked the transport team. They were all nice. And strong. They kept me warm when I would shiver as they pushed me through the drafty hallways. And I remember once, after asking one of them how they were doing, they responded with a kind, "I'm well. And how are you doing today?" I almost laughed aloud- clearly, this was not one of my better days. Generally, I try to not be paralyzed and going to get my 4th MRI of the week if I want to have a successful day. Generally. I'm hilarious, I know. I keep myself well entertained :)

Anyways, in that basement room there was a nurse helping prepare me. She asked me if I was nervous for the tap, and my emotions overcame me. My voice shook- I was honest. I told her I was, that the first tap had been very painful, and that they thought I had MS. She muttered some words that meant nothing to me, something about the doctor being very quick and having performed this procedure hundreds of times before. I thanked her, then turned to my side as she walked away, and waited for the doctor to show up. I thanked him for coming in, they rolled me into the operating room, numbed me up really well with just a slight sting, and placed the needle. With some discomfort and pressure, the fluid was extracted and I was done within 10 minutes. I was rolled back onto my bed and transported to my room, defeat overcoming me. I was but another procedure, another notch in the belt for that doctor. He didn't know my name, or why I was there, or the heartbreak I was feeling. The fluid for him was just information- for me, it was my life.

My mom was waiting for me in my room as I returned. It was now dark, and the visitors had all left. I was glad. I asked my mom to shut the privacy curtain.

I curled up on my left side, greasy and unwashed after days of tests and bed rest, the pain from two needles entering my spine that day beginning to penetrate my senses, and what seemed like a dank future, foggy and dark, with no sure answers, suffocating me like a heavy pillow I could not lift.

I cried.

All of the above feelings were overshadowed, completely, by the fact that my mission, the thing I had loved most out of anything else in the world, was ending. God was asking me to give up such a good thing, my entire world, for something that caused me more pain than I had ever experienced.

My mom cried with me.

And then, suddenly, she inhaled. I looked around, not caring who had come, simply wishing they would leave, until I saw through my tears who was there.

My mission president had come, with his wife.

Tears streamed down my face as that sweet man urgently made his way to the head of my bed and caressed my face in his weathered palm. He stroked my hair as though it were clean and wiped the tears I could not stop. He leaned over my face, with so much Christlike love in his chocolate brown eyes, and he spoke. These are the words that came from his mouth in that critical moment, the first moment I had cried in that hospital, finally allowing defeat to overcome me:

"Don't you cry. Don't you dare cry. You wipe those tears now."

The words were spoken with more love than I can describe. They surprised me. His sweet wife stood behind him, and barely whispered with her hand over her mouth, "Jon, she can cry. She can cry if she wants to."

My mother and his wife looked on as I had a private interview with the man who has taught me more about trusting God than anyone I know. He continued to stroke my face, knowing I needed that physical contact, and urged me to not only endure, but to endure well. He told me I was strong and that I was to focus on the good that I had.

I looked him in the eyes and said the most honest words available to me at that moment, "President. I can endure- I am here, I am living this. But how do I endure well?"

This question, asked to a man who lost a brother and a father at a young age, then later a son, and multiple grandchildren as a mission president, along with his leg to cancer as a young missionary in the field, was the question that would bring an answer to teach me more about how I would strive to live the rest of my life than any other question I had asked him to that point.

He looked deep in my eyes and spoke, "Sister Millward, you endure well by being grateful. You are grateful to God every day for everything, EVERYTHING, that you DO have. You NEVER focus on what you don't have. You wake up in the morning and you thank God that you are alive. And you focus on that. I am missing a leg. Do you know that when I lost it to cancer, they told me that I would never walk again? Sister Millward, I NEVER think about the fact that I can't run, because every day, I am overwhelmingly grateful that I can walk. No matter what the situation is, you are grateful for what you have and you find the blessings you have been given. No matter what."

He continued to hold my face, and asked about the day. I recounted all of the most important events, including the fact that I was still, yes, you guessed it, using that flaming bed pan. I loathed that thing. And can I just say that I never expected to discuss my bathroom habits with my mission president? Just got to keep it real. If you don't have honesty, what do you have, really?

My tears stopped. The pain continued. My heart hurt, my back hurt, and my pride hurt. But the overwhelming depression was lifted, at least to point of being bearable.

That is the Atonement.

I was grateful that God had sent me to a mission president who would know how to help me through the most devastating trial of my life to that point.

I was grateful my mom was with me.

And I was grateful that I had a companion who was able to take care of me, and people in the world, throughout my mission, and in Scotland, Brazil, Ireland, Spain, Russia, Singapore, and all over the States, who were praying and fasting for me, and taking care of my family.

I could think of almost nothing else at that point to be grateful for. But that was my list, and after saying goodbye to the man who changed my life in a moment, I prayed. I couldn't kneel to do so, but I could pour out my heart to God. I was grateful for that. And He heard me- I feel it now, too. He knew that I was doing the best I could, even if I could only think of 3 things to be grateful for, and I had cried all night, and I hadn't been able to go through with the first spinal tap. He heard me, and he accepted my best, and He made up the difference- He made me better.

Enduring well means doing your best, being grateful NO MATTER the circumstances, no matter the history, no matter the task ahead, and giving the rest to God. It means really trusting Him, with all of your heart, not just with your mouth, or your brain, or your actions, or your right knee cap. With your heart. What does it mean to give your HEART?

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths."
Proverbs 3:5-6

NJMM: Love, Faith, Effort.