“Humbug!” and Hope!

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The Fourth Day of Advent

Transplant Day Twenty-three
December 4, 2019

IN DECEMBER DARKNESS

The whole world waits in December darkness
for a glimpse of the Light of God.
Even those who snarl “Humbug!”
and chase away the carolers
have been looking toward the skies.

The one who declared he never would forgive
has forgiven,
and those who left home
have returned,

and even wars are halted,
if briefly,
as the whole world looks starward.

In the December darkness
we peer from our windows
watching for an angel with rainbow wings
to announce the Hope of the World.

— Ann Weems

In this season of my life, it would be easy to snarl “Humbug!” and move on to ordinary, tedious, plodding daily living. It’s hard to look starward when pain is your nightly companion, sticking much too close in the darkness of night, the darkness of life. My words this morning are not Advent-inspired words. They are, pure and simple, a factual and real assessment of where I find myself. My most pressing question? How do I get from “Humbug!” to Hope?

It will require an extra measure of faith, patience and perseverance. It will require my willingness to welcome a new normal. It may call for a little extra weeping, a bit more courage, a wide-open soul and maybe even a few angels to illuminate the way ahead.

To be honest, I have to say that on top of my physical pain is my incessant emotional pain that whispers, “You are not okay!” over and over and over again. I know this is not very Advent-like. This view of my current health and well-being is most definitely not Advent-like. But instead of my constant post- transplant complaints and consternations, I want to look for the star in the night sky. I want to listen for the hope-filled sound of the heavenly host singing “Alleluia!” I want to be standing in awe of angels with rainbow wings.

All of this descriptive information is about my current emotional/physical/spiritual space. I know that I don’t want to stay here in this dark place. I know it’s a temporary, necessary time of moving into healing and wholeness. Still, it often feels like darkness. Much more like “Humbug!” than Hope!

So from this dark place, I will myself to look starward, even briefly. I will see past the December darkness. I plan to peer out of my transplant-veiled windows, watching for an angel with rainbow wings announcing the Hope of the World!

May Spirit make it so.

Itchy! Shaky! Puffy!*

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Transplant Day Sixteen
November 27, 2019

An endearing Physician’s Assistant, Melanie, listened carefully to my symptoms, complaints, concerns and pains, taking very seriously every snippet of information I gave her. She responded with a well thought out remedy for each of my concerns. She was thorough in explaining how we would address every problem and she did so with humor and compassion. Melanie was obviously highly trained and impeccably qualified to treat transplant patients. She had many years of experience and could explain every symptom and prescribe a plan to address it. Her encouragement that the unpleasantness would pass over time was a boost to my courage. Her gift to me was increased patience and a renewal of my hope.

At the end of our session, Melanie offered a summary of the visit, a very descriptive, professional and astute summary. “You’re just having a rough patch right now,” she said, “Itchy, shaky and puffy!”

All of a sudden, I knew her words would be the title of my next blog post. “Itchy, shaky and puffy!” Perfect! Simple descriptive words — not just sterile clinical jargon — but extremely real and true. And that’s what my family and friends want most to know. What are you really feeling?

The truth is that, from the transplant itself, I am recovering well, and now with very little pain. But the effects of my high-powered immunosuppressant medications are playing havoc on my body and all its systems.

Itchy — enough to keep me awake through the night.

Shaky — along with weakness makes it hard to walk and even feed myself.

Puffy — I can’t even describe the pressure in my legs that feels like a balloon about to burst. Two times their normal size is not an exaggeration!

There you have it — a very real, true and human description of how I am faring post transplant. It is pure grace to be able to counter the simple description of my ailments with the simple words of encouragement from the Gospel of Luke:

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten in God’s sight. But even the hairs of your head are all counted. Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.

— Luke 12:6-7 New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)

When all is said and done, I am beginning to believe that I really will emerge from this transplant with a stronger faith and an everlasting hope, having learned how to trust God more fully and know in my heart of God’s healing mercies. Most of all, I want to get past this transplant with words of praise to God on my lips, like the Psalmist, declaring that my mourning has turned to dancing:

Hear, O Lord, and have mercy on me;
Lord, be my helper!”
You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
You have put off my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness,
To the end that my glory may sing praise to You and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever.

— From Psalm 30


* With thanks to Melanie.

Waiting

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Most people don’t really like waiting. Being stopped at one of those very long red lights can be frustrating. Waiting your turn in the grocery line is trying on the more impatient among us. Waiting for a wisp of autumn in the south — when it’s 100 degrees in late September — is particularly exasperating. But these are trivial waiting experiences.

There are persons who are waiting today for a diagnosis from their doctor. Students wait for results from important tests, hoping to at least get a passing grade. Others wait at the bedside of an elderly parent, hoping for and dreading that last breath. These are serious seasons of waiting, life-changing experiences of waiting.

There is at least one more example of waiting — the one I’m experiencing today. My waiting is an exciting, joyful waiting for the car full of my grandchildren to pull up in our driveway. I seldom get to see them, or my son, since they live 11 hours away in Little Rock, Arkansas. So this is a special waiting time. Today I’m waiting expectantly, joyfully, gleefully for my family. It’s the best kind of waiting.

These days whenever I ponder what it means to wait, my thoughts go immediately to my five years of waiting for a life-altering kidney transplant. In these years, my teacher has been faith and my lesson has been patience. I have managed to develop an abundance of patience that has served me in every area of my life.

Patience has not always been one of my strongest character traits, though. I used to have very little patience, and that reality led me to some very raucous encounters with other people. As a victim advocate, I was very trying on judges — to my detriment. As a hospital chaplain, I was insistent when a patient’s medication was delayed. I could cite many examples of my impatience causing upheaval.

Which leads me to my memories of Ethel. I will never forget Ethel — my parishioner, my friend, my sister, my mother — the one person who was loyal to me and protective of me to a fault. To Ethel, it seemed I could do no wrong. She was wrong about that, of course.

Ethel was with me during the difficult time when my church refused my request for ordination. For six months they refused in every way that could hurt me. Ethel was in my corner through every pain-filled business meeting, including the final one that sealed the church’s decision to decline the opportunity to ordain the first Baptist woman in Arkansas.

I was impatiently devastated and saw no way toward ordination or toward the continuation of my ministry as a chaplain. I was “surrounded by a cloud of witnesses” that had seen what I had endured from my church. They lifted me up with their prayers and their constant encouragement. Ethel, however, did more than pray for and encourage me. In the midst of holding my pain with me, Ethel brought up the important fact that I needed to learn patience. Ethel loved me enough to be honest, and so with Bible in hand, she gave me this gift:

For the vision is yet for the appointed time;
It hastens toward the goal and it will not fail.
Though it tarries, wait for it;
For it will certainly come, it will not delay.   
(Habakkuk 2:3 NASB)

Wait for it, Ethel insisted, with a faith that knew exactly how to insist.

Wait for it!

She was right, as always.

So that is my personal experience of learning how to wait. It was a life lesson I needed to learn. And I did learn it (sort of). In the end, I did not become the first Baptist woman ordained in Arkansas, but I did become the first woman in Arkansas to serve as the pastor of a Baptist church. What a surprise from a constantly surprising God who did not intend for me to be a hospital chaplain, but instead led me into a nine-year ministry of being a pastor.

Today, though, I am just waiting for my beautiful grandchildren.

That’s the best surprise of all!

 

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On another note, please pray for me as I wait for my kidney transplant. I am grateful that you are walking with me on this journey that often feels frightening. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much. If you would like to read the story of my journey at the Georgia Transplant Foundation’s website, please visit this link:

http://client.gatransplant.org/goto/KathyMFindley

A “Go Fund Me” page is set up for contributions to help with the enormous costs related to the transplant, including medications, housing costs near the transplant center, and other unforeseeable costs for my care following the transplant. If you can, please make a contribution at this link:

https://bit.ly/33KXZOj