In the morning…
(Well, “In the morning” not really having any relevance, since by the time these words wander their way into the world, the morning will probably have passed. Or even the day. Or a couple of days. Or weeks. Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey, spaketh the Doctor.)
In the morning, my beloved will be heading to the hospital. She’ll be put at ease, then put way at ease, then way way way the heck at ease, then (hopefully while my beloved has “left the building,” if you get my drift…), she’ll be pelted with sound waves, all to crush the daylights out of the little uninvited guests that have taken up residence in her innards and give her huge and painful grief every time one of those little grains of hellspawn even slightly moves.
On the plus side, I now know how to spell Lithotripsy, so I don’t have to call it the “send those foul nuggets back into the abyss!” procedure. Lithotripsy is a lot easier to type, so that’s good.
On the negative side, I once again find myself on the other side of the door.
It’s the waiting side. The side where every second of every minute of every hour passes in real time, not drug-induced wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey. It’s the side of the door where there’s nothing to do but nothing – the helpless side of the door.
And until five years ago, I hadn’t spent much time on that side of the door. I was the hurt one, the sick one, the one who was oblivious to time, until I woke up hours later, usually to the kind face of my beloved.
Now, I find myself in the other role – the one who waits. The one who gets to smile as she wakes up. The one who gets to hover over her, making sure she’s comfortable and resting.
But being the one waiting? No, not really into that part of it.
And the waiting has begun. She’s heading off to sleep, and I’m on the other side of the door. Everyone experiences this – the waiting, the uncertainty. Sometimes it’s a minor procedure – a test, a non-invasive procedure, or just a little off the top.
Hey – the result of a haircut can be a little traumatic. Don’t judge me.
And sometimes the procedure is major, and every minute on the other side of the door seems like an hour. You flinch every time the door opens, hoping for news while trying to keep your internal terrors at bay.
We all spend time on the other side of the door, for many reasons – the medical world is only one place where we wait, hoping for news. Sometimes the door is between husband and wife, parent and child, friend and friend, employer and employee…
Life and death.
If I believe that faith is lived out as life, (And, for the record, I do…) then I know I don’t wait alone. And that is certainly true. But too often we run right from leaving someone on the other side of the door to “All things work together for good” and don’t allow or acknowledge the space between – the very real, raw emotion of waiting. We are temporal creatures, we humanpersons, while our Father is timeless. So I’m allowed to squirm, to feel the weight of each minute, and to be uncertain. My faith is not undermined by the simple truth that I can’t see through that door – I can only sit, wait, and stare at it.
As long as I know Who waits with me, it’s alright to not be ok with the waiting. In the end, it will be alright. But right now, in this very long moment?
I’m on the other side of the door.