I Pray

*  I had fallen...and it was tough to get back up again.  To write.  To post those feelings raw and real.  I am working and writing my way back up again and trying to fill in the gaps of these last few weeks.  Bear with me as I pour out my heart...my reality...and attempt to catch up to today.....

October 19, 2012

Ten days since I last posted.  Seems like forever.  I’ve written…but mostly forgotten…all that’s gone on.  Or tried to.  3000 miles away from the drama…I’ve tried to leave behind.  Sharing a friend’s reality in exchange for my own.  If only it could be so easy.  I’ve tried…and denial has worked for a while.  Healthy even…giving my mind and heart a rest.  From the trauma.  The drama.  The chaos.

Rain is falling…leaves changing color…a brisk, cool breeze in the air.  To live in another’s shoes…if even for a while.

I review what I wrote before I left.  An unposted letter to my Prodigal.  One that was painful to write…and too painful to post.  Then.  I re-read it now with time gone by and it sweeps me back to that day.  And the pain I’ve left behind.  But the reality of what I need to share.  I feel that there is freedom in truth.  My truth.  Truth that may resonate with another.  A mama that walks in my shoes.  Lives the drama.  Feels the pain….

October 10, 2012

Dear Son,

Here I sit in the waiting room.  Again.  The waiting room that has become a metaphor for my life.  Maybe God is trying to show me how waiting is the only way.  The holy way.  His way.  Because it is clearly the only thing that I can do.  To wait on Him.  To be still and know He’s God.

So many waiting rooms these past four years.  Not only for you…but mostly for you.

 

Today you face surgery to repair the breaks in your leg.  I wait wondering if there is any surgery to repair the breaks in my heart.

When I arrived at your house to pick you up this morning, you were still asleep.  Doped over or withdrawing from the pain meds that you were not allowed past midnight in preparation for your surgery.  I waited then too.  For your roommates to roust you and send you on your way.

Your appearance…disheveled…unshaven…smelly, even.  6 days since this ordeal began.  No attempt at a shower?  How can you not try to clean yourself up?  You roll into the car…trying to place where you last had your wallet and nicotine.  We retrieve it and head off to the hospital.

Talk is small.  Stilted.  Forced.  You tell me that you appreciate the ride…my help…but do you?  Am I just that pain in your side that won’t leave?  I want only to show my love…my language receiving and giving…time…presence.

We arrive at the hospital and before long they call you back.  The first step..admitting…and financial business.  I wonder how you are going to pay your deductible…if you even begin to know the out of pocket expense you will experience from the last week’s saga.  That the doctors will all bill you separately on top of the hospital bill.

You walk out stressed explaining that they expect the $900 co-pay upfront.  You tell them you don’t have it.  They negotiate half…you say you have $175 cash and that’s it.  They say never-mind.  Later.  I sigh.  My sub-conscious, genetic pre-disposition to all things responsibility scream loudly in my ears.

Soon we’re escorted back.  Everyone is nice and welcoming.  Susan, your nurse, is friendly and includes me…until.  Until you become uncomfortable answering questions in front of me.  Personal questions.  Medical questions.  Probing questions.  You ask me to step out.  I do.  I step in.  Minutes pass.  More questions. I step out.  I step in and you ask me to leave.  Don’t want me there.  The dance begins once again.  Uncomfortable…awkward…you say.  Politely, I smile to cover the lips that quiver.  I blink large, attempting to dam the tears.  Why so private?  Is there more that I don’t know?  Or are you truly trying to gain autonomy…and true independence.  The former makes me tremble, the latter…I applaud.

I leave, retreating to an outer waiting area.  Your nurse averts my eye.  My soul crumbles…and I ponder….should I have even come.  A mother…wanting to be a support system in spite of the circumstances.  A mother shunned.

Shame …extreme shame.  Blame…bearing down.  Embarrassment, even.  Sad, soul-lonely, at this public display of a private saga.  Anxious anger at the wonder of your desire for privacy but wondering…always wondering…if there’s more.  Hurt.  Harrowing hurt.

I speak slowly to the nurse…mumbling words tumbling tiredly.  “Sorry that you had to be in the middle of that.  He’s my Prodigal child.  My nemesis.”  Her trained smile responds kindly as she utters “no problem.”  The shame I feel, immense.  That I could be to this place in life that I never dreamed I’d experience.  This situation bearing witness to the wrecked weariness I wear.  And trying to reconcile what all went wrong and when.

 

As I peer the nurse in her station, I wonder if she’s relaying our little family drama.  It takes me back to junior high and my acne-stricken years.  The comments made behind my back…almost as painful as those said to my face.  Speculation….judgment…about the cause.

The doctor comes to me…asking me if I have any questions.  His young face and calm demeanor reassuring me that you will be okay.  As far as your leg is concerned.  I again, babble bright about your Prodigality to relieve my heart of shame.  Somehow my words of explanation fill my need to tell our tale.  My story.  He understands…or says he does…and tells me where to wait.

 

You’ve told the nurse that you don’t want to see me again before the surgery.  I text you and tell you that I’ll be praying….you answer thanks.  I pray.

I run to get a quick lunch…and to a pharmacy to find you a waterproof leg protector so that you can shower.  I answer all my texts inquiring how you are. I pray.

I find myself now in the surgical waiting room…waiting to hear…wanting the doctor to tell me that he fixed your leg…and your life.  Knowing all too well that there’s only one Doctor that can fix the true brokenness that you wear inside your soul.  Praying that my God-Doctor will respond with the right plates and screws and whatever else that you may need.  To get well.  If you really want to.

The doctor arrives.  Surgery a success.  One small plate…two small screws.  Should do well.  Will reevaluate in two weeks.  Gives me a script for pain.  Poison.  Your drug of choice.  The obnoxious opiate.  I take it…hands trembling.  Feeling as if I’m party to your predicament.  I ask what to do… “give it to your son and have him fill it only after he has finished all from his previous prescription.”  I utter okay…knowing that there will be a fight.  I pray.

I wait while you’re in recovery.  I meet you in your room.  They wheel you in as you moan…pain piercing the surgical site.  No one can figure it out.  They gave you a general…put you under…and supposedly a block to keep the pain at bay for 24 hours.  You….drugless…fight ferocious with words.  You order me to go to the pharmacy and get the prescription filled.  The pain so intense that you want your armory filled with this mind-numbing pill.  We argue.  I explain the doctor’s instructions.  You accuse.  Your words like cutting of flesh.  I leave.  I pray.  I cry.  At the cycle sure to resume where we once left off.

I go to the pharmacy, wordless, as I hand the pharmacist the script.  I wait motionless, guilty, like a willing accomplice to a crime.  I pray… “God…let him tell me he can’t fill it…”.  I wait.  He tells me it will be ready in 15 minutes.  I start to walk away.  He calls me back.  Says he can’t fill it.  Insurance won’t cover it.  That you had an identical prescription filled the day prior.  That he won’t fill it.  He’s entered it into the system and when you are ready for the script you can call and talk to the pharmacist.  He doesn’t give it back to me.  I get his business card.  I sigh relief.  I thank God.  For this small answer.  To not be party to this crime.

 

I sweat silly anticipating the scene I’m about to endure.  The accusations, words that will fly freely at my face.  I enter your room.  The anesthesiologist and nurse working tirelessly trying to figure out the reason for your pain.  The doctor ultrasounds the leg and determines that the block didn’t take and he attempts to re-administer the drug.  You see me and want assurance that I possess your poison.  I start to explain and you cut me off with fierceness that shames.  The nurse and doctor witness to this assault.  I attempt further words at what the pharmacist said and heat rises.  You accuse with a crazed look…hungry for the drug that you know will numb you silly.  The nurse steps in and takes the hit.  She puts an end to it.  She tells you that I’m not lying and why they can’t fill the script.   She looks at me eyes sympathetic.  An understanding crossing her face at the truth to the charade.

I back out of the room saying I’ll be in the waiting room if needed.  Head hung low I retreat.  To the two lone chairs at the end of the hallway.  Back outside the nurses station.  Feeling like I’m in “time-out” for an infraction of behavior.  My heart hurts huge.

 

I look up to see the two nurses that have been at your side throughout the day walking toward me.  I wonder at what they must think.  At the commentary that may have taken place.  Me…that acne-faced junior-high girl…waiting for condemnation.

As they approach, I see their eyes empathetic…a knowing that passes between mothers.  They both reach out for me.  Hands on my shoulders.  I slump.  I relax.  I realize that they are not judging but sympathizing.  Giving me non-verbal love.  I melt.  I accept their touch.  I attempt to explain this drama…this Hell I’ve been living.  They say little but their eyes speak volumes.  They commend me for loving you in spite of these circumstances.  They affirm my desire to hang in there.  To have hope.  To believe.  To trust that if you want to get well…you will.

They explain that the second block the doctor gave you is now working and that you should be ready to leave soon.  I can pull my car to the front and they’ll wheel you out.  I smile sad and thank them.  For understanding.  For not judging.  Me.  A mom that loves her son with abandon.

The nurse helps you into the car.  She looks at me knowing.  The unknown I face.  The uncertainty of all that lies ahead.

Pain diminished, you look at me and thank me.  I offer food and you decline.  You want to get home…back to your place.  You ask if we can hit the re-start button.  You somewhat apologize for your accusations toward me in regard to the prescription.  You say that you were scared…upset…that you were anticipating that your house manager would not dispense the correct amount to you due to the differing prescriptions from the two doctors.  That you know how tough these next few weeks will be.  I silently nod…not knowing what to say.  Wishing it all could be different.  Wanting to kiss your boo-boo and make the pain vanish.  Those days…long gone.

I take you home and find a roommate.  One who assures me that you will not be left alone.  I remember the discharge instructions knowing that I will waste my breath relaying them to him or you.  Knowing that so many things can go wrong following surgery and yet having to relinquish control of this situation.  I pour you a glass of orange juice.  I ask if you need anything.  You thank me and hug me.  I leave.

I drive away a war-torn veteran.  Emotion-filled…yet empty of any ability to process.  I look at my to-do list…5:30pm…I shut down my brain…and finish my day.  I pray and ask God to anoint my attempts.  To reign righteousness down on you.  To guide and lead you through this maze you are mixed up in.  To love you with an Abba love.  For He is your only hope, son.

 

I’ll love you forever….I’ll like you for always…as long as I’m living…my baby you’ll be….xo, Mom