After --I don’t know--hundreds of hospital visits over the years, I was curious to learn what it is like to be the patient.  I wondered how it would feel to be the one sitting in a hospital bed, wearing one of those gowns that are not made for real or false modesty, answering the same questions over again to doctors and nurses while family members sit attentively by, and the visiting pastor hovers over the patient and prays.  I wondered how I would face the operation, and the biggest mystery was how I would feel afterwards.

The pre-op routine felt familiar.  I had seen folks go through that many times.  I had been the pastor at the bedside, reciting psalms and a prayer.  I had seen the IV needles in people’s hands and thought that must be painful or uncomfortable.  It was neither.  The IV was no big deal.

My friend, Pastor Mark Pederson came by to recite Psalm 92.  I enjoyed the psalm both for its poetic content and for the way it helped me look beyond my present circumstance. “It is good to give thanks to the Lord, to sing praises to your name, O Most High; to declare your steadfast love in the morning, and your faithfulness by night, to the music of the lute and the harp, to the melody of the lyre.”  I wanted to add “to the electric guitar.”  “For you, O Lord, have made me glad by your work; at the works of your hands I sing for joy.”  What a delightful song for going into an operation.  It focused on the source of life and joy, and not on distress or illness.  Mark brought into the room what I call “the God stuff.”  Just an awareness of God’s presence in the midst of whatever I was going through, and that was enough.

It didn’t even occur to me to pray as they wheeled me down the hall and through the double doors into the cold operating room.  I felt calm, and most of all curious.  Being a writer, I wanted to catch every detail.  The room was bigger than I expected.  Machines and instruments all draped with blue cloths lined the walls.  The floor was bare except for the operating table which stood in the middle of the room, a tray of instruments beside it,  covered with a blue tarp, and a chair where the anesthesiologist sat waiting to put me under.  Above the operating table hung two huge round flood lights, like two half-casks of wine honeycombed with penetrating lights.

As soon as I was transferred onto the operating table, attendants began packing my arms and legs on all sides with heavy cushions and strapping me down to the table.  I felt well cared for, swaddled and cradled, and I breathed easy. The surgeon stood at a distance waiting for the time to begin.  I had met the anesthesiologist earlier in the morning, a tall, thin woman with graying shoulder length hair, now tucked under a blue surgical hat, and her face behind a mask.  She asked me if I was ready, and I said, “Yes.”  I saw her hold up a syringe, squeezing the plunger so that a few drops squirted out of the opening as she tapped the thin barrel with her middle fingernail.  That is the last thing I remember.  I didn’t see her plunge the serum into my IV tube.  I was just gone for a while.

Coming up out of a deep sleep I heard a man say, “Matthew, my name is David.  You have just come out of surgery and you’re going to be fine.”  I was in a white room with dividing curtains.  Another patient lay on a gurney across the aisle.  “Where am I?”  I asked.  “You’re in the recovery room.” David said, “We’re going to keep you here for a while until you are ready to go back to your room.  I never saw David, I only heard his voice.  “I feel so grateful,” I told him, “but also anxious somehow.”  I drifted back to sleep and woke up later as they were getting ready to wheel me out of Recovery.

It was great to see my family.  Jordan had just picked up Zach from school, and Alicia, Jordan and Zach all walked into the room together.  At such times as an operation, you experience life on very basic levels.  There were some simple things I needed to know.  Who am I?  Where am I?  Am I okay?  Is there someone there who loves me and whom I can love?  Is there someone there?  My family was there.

The doctor came by and told me that the operation had gone well.  It took four hours instead of the two they had planned, because the growth on my thyroid was much bigger than he had expected and it had begun wrapping itself around some nerves.  He got it all, and there was no nerve damage.  Preliminary tests showed no cancer.
My family got me home and took good care of me.  I lay on the couch and listened to Yes, “Tales of Topographic Oceans” on Vicodin.  The music sounded exceptionally clear to me.  Jordan stayed with me through the weekend.  On Friday, the day after the operation, my Calvary staff friends, Marilyn, Christi, and Jim came to visit, along with my friend Jan from the Episcopal Church.  They brought a large basket of fruit.

Almost every day, for the next week, I enjoyed visitors.  Your visits, phone calls and cards meant a lot to me.  Pastor Virginia brought me a prayer shawl, which, she said, Helen Jerde had made, a rich beautiful blue.  Virginia told me about the goings-on at church,  especially Anita Heibel’s mother’s funeral.  She also brought a copy of her Sunday sermon on what Jesus meant when he said he came that we may have abundant life.  I have been pondering that saying all year, and Virginia got it right in her sermon.  I was grateful that she was there to care for you folks at Calvary while I was recovering.

The most difficult thing I had to learn in recovery was how to rest when I needed it.  I had volunteered to head up worship and music for the Oregon Synod Assembly, coming up next week, now.  This project gave me something to focus on before surgery, and something to work toward after.  But recovery is tricky.  I felt like I had all kinds of energy and got right to work.  Then I was exhausted by the afternoon.  After three days I was feeling tired and awful.  My family was mad at me for not resting.  And I still felt driven.

I called my sister Judy.  She has been through countless cancer surgeries and knew exactly what I was going through.  She told me that it is okay to work when I have the energy to do so, but as soon as I start to feel tired, to stop immediately and rest.  I had to learn to listen to my body and rest when I needed rest.  I also realized that what was driving me, besides good creative inspiration, was an underlying loneliness.

Recovery from surgery or illness is not just physical.  It is also an emotional and spiritual event.  It is not linear, it is cyclical.  It has its ups and downs, and often there is a moment called a crisis.  The word “crisis” was originally a medical term from a Greek word that means, “decision”.  There is a point in recovery from illness or surgery, in which you are either going to fail or get better.  My crisis came about a week after surgery on Friday.  I felt exhausted physically, emotionally, relationally, spiritually.  I called another Pastor friend, Joe Stranjord, and he talked me through it.  Then I lay down.  It was then that I came to a decision.  It was time to get better.  I slept all morning, about four hours, and when I woke up, I knew I was going to be all right.

Yeah, I learned a few things about being the patient.  This was my experience with this particular surgery, and I’m sure that everyone’s experience is unique.   In some ways it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be.  But the hard parts, learning the rhythm of recovery, dealing with loneliness and exhaustion, negotiating relationships, and finding the will and the hope to get better, these things are not easy to do.  It was clear to me that family and friends, the community in Christ, your cards, visits, phone calls conversations and prayers, and a basic trust in Jesus who came so that we might have abundant life, these things matter a great deal.  I feel lucky to have all this, lucky and blessed.  And so we give God thanks and praise.