I Don't Want to Feel a Thing
Early January 2011 found Tom and me at the hospital for an outpatient procedure to insert a chemo port into my chest for treatment. I was about seven weeks past the surgery that had removed the cancerous tumor and given me a temporary colostomy. All things considered this should have been an easy day, a breeze of a procedure. I remember thinking, “God, please let me get someone who can put the IV in quickly and as painlessly as possible.” You learn to pray about these things.
The nurse prepping me for surgery was chipper but I became uneasy. She seemed a little unsure. My trepidation turned into an angry, “GEEEZZZ!” as she placed the needle into the back of my hand. Something was off and it really (really) hurt. And that, as my then fifteen year old daughter and her friends would say, was IT. Tears started flowing down my cheeks. My husband Tom asked, “Are you all right?”
I had a split second to choose my words carefully and decide if I wanted to see him go to bat over my wounded hand. He was a split second away from getting upset on my behalf.
“I will be fine," was my answer through gritted teeth.
And I wanted to be fine. I pulled it together until they wheeled my bed into the surgical waiting room and the tears kept coming. I was alone in the room and knew there was probably a camera somewhere with a person watching me quietly and completely fall apart. Sure enough, in a few minutes the head of anesthesiology came through and asked what had happened. I said I felt foolish but that the painful needle had set me off for some reason.
“Well, you’ve been through a lot,” she said kindly.
A few minutes later the operating room nurse came for a final check.
And then, the Sharon Show began.
The nurse flipped through the 3-inch thick binder of my surgical life.
She matter-of-factly said, “Ok I just have to tell you that you may feel a little pain or discomfort from the procedure since we’re using twilight anesthesia," (my blood pressure started going up), "... but if you do," (what do you mean IF, that’s why you give me anesthesia?!), "...you’ll be able to tell us" (I thought the point was to be unconscious and therefore unable to talk?!).
A horror movie preview started going through my head. Wasn't there a movie about the guy who could feel everything during surgery but couldn’t scream? I did not watch the movie because things like that freak me out. Here I was -- the star in my own series. And for one of the few times in my life I let loose and flipped out.
I grilled her repeatedly by demanding, “What exactly do you mean, that I may feel it?”
In between her calm replies, which kept expressing how she had to just tell me the small possibility that I could feel something, and my increasingly frantic questions, I finally yelled, “Look, I don’t want to feel a thing!”
I had crossed some line because she started looking at me sideways. Suddenly another nurse appeared, followed by the surgeon.
The surgeon, not having heard the exchange, asked, “Do you have any questions?” and I shot out a clipped, “No!”
The gurney began moving towards the surgical room and the last thing I remember was the new nurse saying, “… and now we’re going to give you a little something to relax you…” I’m sure I was the Guess What Kind of Patient I Had To Take Care of Today topic in the break room. In the end I did not feel a thing during the procedure; I did feel sheepish for falling apart.
A week later when I saw the oncologist he sympathetically examined my still-bruised hand with a knowing look. Word gets around.
Life sometimes makes you feel like you don’t want to feel a thing.
Like one more problem or trauma or pain will tip you over forever. But then God allows you to look back and see His love and care even through the breathtaking distress, the anger, and the raw fear. And He loves us through the times we lose it.
Whatever you’re facing today — painful needles, angry emotions, fearsome procedures, or any of life’s myriad other challenges – may the one thing that you do feel be God’s unwavering love and care.
“Unless the LORD had given me help, I would soon have dwelt in the silence of death. When I said, “My foot is slipping,” your unfailing love, LORD, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought me joy.” Psalm 94:17-19
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