She had surgery today.
It wasn’t massive, only an hour or so under anesthesia, but my heart still felt anxiety.
Tears stung my eyes as I prayed over her last night and this morning.
Will medical events; however minor, ever feel normal again?
I sat in the waiting room with her boyfriend and my mom, journaled a prayer into the prayer book I keep for her, and thought a lot of you.
I’ve spent far too many hours in waiting rooms petitioning our God for safety and healing.
Today brings back the flood of memories from being your caregiver for our 19 years of marriage.
Never a year passed where we weren’t at one specialist or another concerning your health; countless surgeries, dozens and dozens of them.
We are home now. She is resting as comfortably as possible. I am caring for her, changing ice packs, explaining where she is to her as the anesthesia continues to cause confusion. And a lump forms in my throat.
I miss being your caregiver. I didn’t realize until now how much I miss that role. I miss YOU the most, obviously, but I miss expressing my love to you through tenderly caring for you all those years.
As I read through all of the pre- and post- surgical instructions last night and organized all of her medications on the bathroom counter, I had so many memories of doing the same for you. It had become a part of who I am. Another consequential loss compounded by your departure to heaven.
I am tired. So very weary lately. No particular reason. Life is good. We continue to engage as a family and laugh daily. But I would love a week to not get out of bed. Although I fear if I ever take such luxury, I may never return to living. So, we press on. We put our feet on the ground each morning and we do our work, love each other, look for ways to serve others, and keep making the next right choice.
And we try to enjoy the process of figuring out who we are now, without you by our side. Three and a half years into this “newness” and I’m not sure any of us have fully found ourselves yet. And that’s okay. We will get there eventually.
Our one constant, the solitary that has remained unchanged in your absence is the presence of God.
He is enough. I trust Him to redefine each of our roles in this life in His perfect timing.
For today, I’m allowing the missing and the sorrow to wrap itself around me for a bit. Then, tonight, I will fold it up and tuck it away until the next time. It’s how I do this life now. And that’s okay too.