Going Back

I flew home after a grueling two weeks of final classes, final projects, and final exams just a few days ago, on Wednesday. I came home a little earlier than a lot of the people I know, because I had a couple of doctors appointments.

I knew both of these appointments were coming, but once I scheduled them in early December, it was like the subconscious part of me started to go crazy.

You see, they found a cyst on my pituitary gland back in January. They said they wanted to check it again by an MRI in about 6 months. So, throughout the year and all of the other things that I have been focusing on, like physical therapy and social life and academics, I just forgot about it.

Once that MRI was scheduled though,  it all came crashing back, like waves in a storm when you have no control.

All of a sudden, it didn't matter that they'd said they weren't worried about it. It didn't matter that this was a check up and that symptoms hadn't returned.

They were asking me to climb back into an MRI machine- last time I was in one of those my entire future was seemingly being flushed down the drain. They wanted to check a cyst that they had found on my brain. Serious or not, the ramifications of any changes to that cyst would mean that I would be back in a hospital, back where my own personal hell had taken place. I felt suffocated at the thought of my future being erased again, after I had it back.

I tried to cope. Some days were better than others. I began to hate dating- any date I went on was irritating and silly; why would I care to meet or get to know people who have no idea what devastation may lie in my near future? Finals were slightly overwhelming; while everyone complained and bemoaned failing their tests, I simply thought about what it would mean if I failed the test that came after my finals. I tried to be positive, but I couldn't always suppress the thought of "what if?"

"What if" is not usually a productive question. Although I would hate to go in with blind optimism, it also does me no good to dwell on the worst situation possible, right?

I called my mission president.

He gave me the divine advice I sought, and more importantly the love I required. I love that man. He said, simply, "Well, Elise, it's all about coming to the point of trusting God so much that you know that if He decides to take you tomorrow, you are completely okay with that."

This was stretching the trust I'd promised God I would give Him. My mission president counseled me that these feelings were okay; they were what help us grow. He also told me that no matter what could be coming, I must be able to focus on what I am doing, and move forward as if nothing bad was happening, because that is part of enduring and trusting. I must not focus on the "what if's."

So I didn't.

I still cried though, when it felt like I was not able to cope anymore and was simply drowning.

My friends rescued me; over and over again the last two weeks of the semester. They let me cry; they cried with me. They stared at me with big eyes as I poured my fears into them. They gave me blessings. They told me my fears were not unfounded, and helped me to not feel badly that I wasn't as calm as I'd hoped I would be, trusting in the Lord. My bishop and his wife had me over to their home for over an hour and a half one night, just to talk. And then a group of blessed angels, my dear friends, bought me a 'hospital survival kit' complete with fuzzy socks, chocolate, a beautifully photoshopped framed picture of all of us, and supplies to paint my nails until the end of time.

That night, the load I was carrying felt lighter. I left the apartment smiling, legitimately, from the inside out. My shoulders stopped aching- I was not lifting alone any more. They said, "We wish we could be there with you, but since we can't, we want you to know that we are thinking of and love you."

And I flew home happier than I thought I could be.

They helped carry my burdens- they fulfilled their baptismal covenant.

Thursday, December 18th, I went back to an MRI machine. It was 45 minutes long. I chose the 'Country Christmas Music' station. That was a disastrous mistake- never choose that station unless you are hoping to destroy your own sanity.

I took off my jewelry and climbed into some scrubs. They put earplugs and earphones on me. They took the images... and they sent me on my way.

I get the results the 30th of December.

I am not afraid anymore. Being home has brought it all into perspective again for me. It will be okay, whatever the results.

Friday I had a minor surgery on my intestinal tract. It was destroyed last year when I was sick for so long- after medical therapy and a year of trying to fix it by changing my diet, etc. the doctor finally recommended surgery.

I had to enter a hospital again to get the surgery though. I feared what I would feel wearing a gown again, laying in a hospital bed, having an IV.

My mom and I went together. She never leaves me alone :) We arrived two hours early after stopping at a friends house, whose dog promptly covered me in a carpet of curly, long hair, just to add to the classy sweat-pants look I was sporting.

I checked in and waited in a nicely cushioned green waiting room and promptly asked the man who was registering me if he had some tape. I had to get the nasty dog hair off you see. He went to his locker and gave me an entire lint roller :)

We entered the bowels of the hospital, to the surgery waiting area. It was filled to capacity- everyone is trying to meet their deductible. I proudly helped my family meet ours on the 22 of January this past year :) And when that wasn't good enough, I continued racking up the medical bills for us just to make sure we were clear :)

I was taken back to a room where I was weighed, asked to empty my bladder one last time, I changed, and met my nurse. She had been a nurse since 1979- she was trained by an old army nurse. She placed my IV, first try, after giving me some local anesthesia. It was in my right hand, where the other nurse in Jersey said I had a 'big, sexy vein.' I met the doctor, the anesthesiologist, and my nurse. They shot me with a tube of some sedatives, and I promptly started staring around, mouth hanging open, bright eyes smiling at everyone who spoke to me. I vaguely remember slurring to my mother about how delicious some giant puff cheetos would be, after telling her I hated percosset because it made me want to fly, and then I was rolled away into the operating room.

Next thing I remember, I was waking up. I had a feeling of regret in my stomach- sleeping on drugs is so peaceful, and I so rarely sleep peacefully anymore. It took me more than an hour to pull out of the anesthesia induced daze, and with my itchy nose I continued to apologize to my mother for how rude I was being while I wasn't talking to her and ask her to forgive me for ever saying anything unkind, ever. She just patted me and told me to focus on waking up. Naturally I started speaking about a distant neighbor who moved away when I was twelve... the conversation must have been very stimulating for my mom haha. I can't seem to keep quiet when I'm drugged :)

Once I was more fully awake, I looked at my mom and stated something I wasn't aware had been a problem before the surgery; what was, I think, the real reason I had such a hard time returning to the hospital as a patient. I stated, simply, "Mom, I'm not afraid of the hospital anymore." She smiled, whispered, "Good," and I laid back under my heated blankets and drank in the peace I had been missing.

6 hours after arriving, we left the hospital under cover of a drizzling raincloud. I snuggled under a blanket and watched Frozen while I tried to stay awake for the last couple hours of the day. I failed, but I was happy.

I'm glad I'm not afraid of the hospital anymore. Or MRI machines. Or the memories I have. Or the results of that MRI. It will be okay. It may be painful, but it will be okay.