Suffering is subjective, though universally painful, and faith can sometimes be hard to find. I learned a lesson in that recently, and I gained faith during the very time that was causing me the most pain.
On a Sunday night, I was picking away at my computer (I was procrastinating, actually); I had a busy week ahead with two long stories, one due midweek and one due Friday. Earlier that day, I'd toured a multimillion-dollar home on the Saugerties border of Woodstock. Being so close to the Ashokan Reservoir, one of my very favorite places, I of course treated myself to a mile walk along the icy, breathtaking promenade. Seeing snow buntings for the first time was a true highlight. But I digress...
As I was starting to write, my right arm was hurting. I'm a 12-year breast cancer survivor, and the doctors took out 19 of the 23 lymph nodes on my right axillary area. Chemo and radiation followed the surgery in what I've since termed my "year of inconvenience," since memories of the pain involved faded, much like the pangs of childbirth do. A few years after surgery, lymphedema developed in my arm which sometimes makes it swollen and painful. But this really hurt.
I bundled up on the couch and tried to power through it, thinking if I get a good night's sleep, I'd feel better in the morning. But I started shaking and the pain became unbearable. Being that it was Sunday night, too late for urgent care and not wanting to sit in the ER, I took Advil that was brought to me by Jim and went to bed. The next morning, there were bright red patches up and down my arm. Urgent care suspected cellulitis (oh, no, I thought: of course, I'd Googled it the night before) and sent me to Garnet Health Medical Center.
Another complication of my lymphedema is that blood can only be taken from my left arm, which posed a problem that Monday: a) all that chemo, IVs, and needle sticks from 12 years ago had pretty much exhausted my veins, and b) when I know I'll have blood taken, I load up the day before on water, Gatorade, and juice. Not this day. I was dehydrated.
It took three nurses seven times to find a vein to offer up some blood. I needed intravenous fluid, painkillers, and antibiotics, so they tried an ultrasound-guided IV. It failed. The second one succeeded. Then the hospital misplaced my CBC, so they had to stick me a tenth time.
After 10 and a half hours in the emergency department, I was somewhat comfortably ensconced in a private room. The angry red patches marched up and down my arm over the next couple of days, but the pain there was lessened by the screaming of the veins in my left arm. I battled more shakes, a 103-degree fever, and hospital food (someone tell me why maple syrup would be a side to a salad?).
By Tuesday night, I was literally ready to give up. The IV failed again and a new one had to be inserted at midnight. By then, the pain was awful; the fevers were draining; the antibiotics were fatiguing. Suffering is subjective, so please bear with me - I know it sounds melodramatic. "I've had a good life," I bargained with God. "This is unbearable. If I have to endure this pain again, please kill me." I recited what I could of the Memorare in my head:
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful.
Amen.
And I remembered what I'd learned when I was teaching catechism in my son Tommy's class at church - to give our suffering to God, so those in purgatory may benefit (I probably got that wrong; I wasn't perfect).
At 5:30 Wednesday morning, I was dozing in the chair next to the bed, and was awakened by a woman who had arrived to—oh, no—take more blood. I sat on the bed. One stick. Two. As she patted my hand to drum up the veins, I burst into tears. The vein cooperated, but even after that I couldn't stop sobbing. This was too much.
The woman sat back. Her name was Star, and her eyes were an electric green that, I swear, reflected those stars right back to me. "Honey, I'm not supposed to do this, but let me give you a hug." I sobbed on her shoulder, then sat back on the bed. She sat down and as she picked up the needles, gauze, and tubes, casually asked if I believed in God.
"I do," I answered.
She directed those electric eyes back to me. "You know, He's sitting right there on the bed with you. God does not give you anything you can't handle. Now, you lay down, get comfortable, and get some sleep. You look like you haven't slept at all."
As she walked out, I lay back and clutched a pillow in my arms. As my arms encircled that pillow, I could feel God's arms encircling me, and I fell fast asleep.
Later that morning, the doctors were surprised to see that nearly all the redness had cleared up. I was given two prescriptions for oral antibiotics to take over the next week at home — and I was discharged that afternoon.
Those few days are nothing, I know, compared to the suffering that many other people endure every single day. As I lay there in the hospital, memories of the pain and isolation I'd felt during my cancer treatment came roaring back. During those few days, I was lifted by Jim at my side, messages of support by family and friends, and flowers from my sister and Dad. And I never knew how much my faith would be restored by an early-morning Star.
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