[NOTE: There are a couple of medical details in this post in the paragraph between the three-dot separator symbols; if that makes you squeamish, feel free to skip it! You won’t miss anything important.]
I had to go to the ER today, and while I can’t say I had a spiritual experience, I certainly tried.
My tailbone had been in progressively worse pain starting on Friday – just three days prior – and by Monday morning I was finding it difficult to walk or sit down. Something wasn’t right; I made it to our university’s health center before bursting into tears at the friendly receptionist I’ve gotten to know asking, “Kimberly! How are you?” The nurse practitioner, a new face but just as friendly, took one look at my tailbone and told me I’d need to go to the ER.
As I limped across campus, I tried to call to mind the sparse doctrines I remembered from St. Julian of Norwich and St. Ignatius of Loyola about using pain to bring glory to Christ – I couldn’t recall anything aside from the mere fact that they’d addressed it, so I remember praying, “Jesus, if there’s a way to use this pain for you… help me figure that out.” I’m… not really sure he did, but I’m also not really sure Ignatius or Julian had very healthy relationships with pain, so that’s likely a good thing.
. . .
A pilonidal cyst is a fairly uncommon kind of cyst, affecting 26 out of every 100,000 people – lucky me. It’s also statistically very likely I’ll get another one in my lifetime, since they tend to come back – lucky me again! The procedure is simple but not very fun: I needed to have the area numbed with an injection, and then they needed to lance the cyst to get rid of the fluid inside. The injection was easily the worst part of the whole ordeal, and in second place was the times they needed to do things inside the wound, since the numbing agent only worked on the surface of my skin. At least it wasn’t too big of a deal when the nursing student had to make at least five incisions to get it right – that was the only part I couldn’t feel!
. . .
As I lay face-down in the room alone, waiting for the nurses to come back and perform the procedure, I remember thinking, Wait, I should be praying right now. I was pretty scared, in pain, and feeling rather exposed (hospital gowns, man.) My brain floundered for some kind of anchor to stop the flow of tears, and it ended up settling on mentally chanting a psalm in an Orthodox church common chant*, a very repetitive melody that wound up being quite calming. Somewhere in between the “Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean”s and the “Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy”s, my muscles stopped feeling as tense, and I felt more peaceful than I had all day. From a psychological perspective, this was most likely a welcome consequence of the chant’s gentle monotony; I was thankful anyway.
There is something about needles, hospital smells, acute pain, and trying to remember when to take your pills that makes forgetting the metaphysical realm just a little too easy. I was not “remembering Christ on the cross” as injections were being administered; I was not “praying ceaselessly” as the student nurse struggled to poke and prod the wound; I wasn’t even thanking God as he provided a wonderful friend to drive me home from the hospital and help me pick up my prescriptions from the pharmacy. That last one makes me feel a little lousy, if I’m being honest.
But that’s real. This is real. Pain is something that makes itself known and difficult to ignore; and the recovery from it is a weird, slow climb out of a valley that has you acting like yourself before you’re really feeling like yourself again. I’m certain something might have been gained had I ground my teeth and hissed out a constant stream of prayer as my tailbone wailed in protest – but I’m also just as certain that there is something to be gained from turning around and reflecting on the patch of ground that only holds one set of footprints.
Sometimes life needs a little more liturgy to center us on what’s most important; but sometimes, each day gives us enough liturgy of its own. Today’s was more than I ever wanted on my plate, for sure – but there is no shame in finding God in the rearview mirror instead of through the windshield. If you’re going through a particularly difficult time, it’s not always easy (or even possible, truthfully) to find him through the pain; but my friend, I pray you will find him at the end, when you’re able to stand back up and turn around.
I promise he will have been there the whole time; he always is.
