She had surgery today.
Our girl.
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.
