A Bundle of Nerves: Lessons in Patience and Trust

Nine months into 2021. Life is bumping along uneventfully for me: church on Sundays, Christian Day School tutoring on Tuesdays, Bible study on Wednesdays; two daily 30-minute power walks and the occasional trip to the Y weight room; reading, writing, editing for friends. Comfortable. Predictable. Mostly solitary. In early October, I distinctly recall saying to the cat, "I am really tired of my boring routine."

Caution: Never utter this phrase! Not in your head, not to the family pet, not to a sympathetic friend.

Monday, October 18th. I trip on uneven pavement during my first walk of the day, land squarely on my left shoulder, and limp home in a haze of pain. My helpful sister-in-law drives me to Urgent Care, where x-rays reveal that I've broken my clavicle, then spend several days recovering from the shock and learning how to function with one arm. ("Please, Lord, give me back my boring routine!")

Monday, November 1st. A fluttery heartbeat sends me back to the clinic. Diagnosis: atrial fibrillation. Medications, referral to a cardiologist, more resting and recuperating. ("Please, Lord, give me back my boring routine!")

Friday, December 3rd. Following multiple phone calls to nurses and visits to my home clinic to report symptoms I'd assumed were medication side effects, a friend rushes me to the emergency room where I lay, bloated like a pregnant puffer fish, in the throes of acute congestive heart failure brought on by uncontrolled a-fib.

I am terrified, confused. I've long aspired to, been blessed with, and been grateful for good health. Why is this happening? I'd seen two doctors just days before my hospital admission. Shouldn't one of them have detected the dreadful condition that was taking over my body?

I spend 24 hours on an emergency room gurney—the tedium broken by a chest x-ray, an unsuccessful attempt at cardioversion to shock my heartbeat back into normal rhythm, and a CT scan. A tactless young doctor strolls in as I lay there, alone and frightened; announces that the CT scan revealed foreboding things: a spot on my liver; a lesion on my spine. He uses the word "metastases" twice; strolls out again. ("Please, Lord, give me back my boring routine!")

Saturday, December 4th. My aging private hospital room feels like a VIP suite after the nightmarish time in ER. Relief comes from six heavy-duty drugs to deal with 24 pounds of fluid weight gain, the irregular pulse, and the temporary weakening of my formerly strong, structurally sound heart. In response to frantic prayers, God provides comfort via a sprinkling of encouraging souls who put things into perspective. As I chastise myself for getting into this mess, one hospital staffer assures me, "It's not your fault." Addressing my anxiety over the CT scan, my favorite doctor cautions, "Don't get ahead of yourself." And as I relapse into old habits of intellectualizing and overanalyzing, a nutrition counselor calmly advises, "Don't over-think it."

Tuesday, December 7th. Home to recuperate. I spend the early days panicking over every little twinge, every thumping sensation in my chest, every episode of flagging energy. My weight drops to 107 because of the diuretics, and I worry about this. I feel much more vulnerable, so I isolate.

Thursday, January 13th. The clavicle break is healed, and range of motion is improving. A follow-up cardioversion procedure normalizes the erratic heartbeat. A chest x-ray shows no more fluid in my lungs, which would have had to be siphoned out. And following weeks of looming apprehension—sprouted from the seeds of fear planted by Dr. Tactless—an MRI confirms that the spot on my liver is a merely a nerve bundle, and any other lesions are innocuous, "nothing to worry about." ("Thank you, Lord, for restoring my health!")

I look back and see many blessings woven into my little crisis, and I pray for the strength of character to forever be content with today's "boring routine." Some exciting alternatives, I've learned, are nothing to wish for.