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Oh gosh, dear reader and friend, I want to apologize up front for sending such a strange newsletter this week. I know some of you have been waiting a number of days now trying to get a better idea of what is going on with me and then others of you are wondering, “Why has she not answered my email?” and then others of you are probably like, “Why is she writing at all?”
So, here is the short version: Many of you probably already know that I have long been a fan of St. Hildegard of Bingen and am quite intrigued by those medieval visions she had of God at work in her time, but I wasn’t really one to have those visions myself until last Tuesday. Let me tell you, if this is something that happens to you, it is a very moving experience. But let me also warn you that it is something that merits an immediate check in to the emergency room, and if you are especially lucky like me, at Emory-St. Joseph Hospital.
What first looked like a stroke to the medical team turned out to be an indication of a tumor putting pressure on my brain that needed to come out sooner rather than…. Well, let’s just say “as soon as possible.” If you are interested in the science involved here and what a brain scan looks like and what kinds of medications are assigned for what times of day and night after part of your brain has been removed, I am going to connect you right here with my very cool siblings who set up a Caring Bridge site so that everyone can have the same information, even if I can't figure out how to get in there with you.
I am one of those people blessed enough to have a few nurses and physical therapists in the family. They have been most impressed by pictures of the restorative work on my skull that happened after surgery on Thursday and are optimistic about how my hair is going to grow back. I personally think it looks like 62 large carpet staples are currently wrapping my left ear and wonder if I am ever going to make it through a TSA security line again…. which will be challenging since I’ve also lost the right to drive a car for at least six months.
But as I tell you this, I want you to know that I cannot remember the last time in life that I have felt quite as peaceful or grateful or filled with love as I do right now. Occasionally I have been known to say a few feisty things because of the steroid I’ll continue to take for at least a couple more days to reduce the swelling in my brain. If you do not ask me how many fingers you are holding up, though, or the name the current U.S. president, I tend to be very calm.
Yesterday, the Level 2 children in our parish atrium sent me some prayer cards including my favorite line from Psalm 23: “The Lord is my Shepherd. I have everything I need. Open This. ” That is just sooo, sooo, sooo true. I have been treated by the hospital and my family and friends so much better than I deserve. And in a weird way, I sense the very best thing I can do for the world right now is probably not anything especially bold or prominent, but open up the possibility of offering up the loss of getting to do what I’d hoped to accomplish this month or dealing with the claustrophobia of being inside the MRI machine or accepting the fact I have to close my eyes again. In a couple of days (on October 15), we’ll mark the feast of Teresa of Avila, and I’m staring right now at the post card that hangs right over my desk: “When we accept what happens and make the best of it, we are praising God.” I’m not typically great at doing that, but giving it my best shot this month as I await greater diagnosis of the mystery tumor. Open This.
Language is usually something that comes pretty easily to me, and I enjoy being creative with it. Right now, that is harder. Sometimes I am forgetting words that used to be very easy to access. It might only last for a couple more weeks; it might last longer. I don’t know yet. But I know I still really like writing you and connecting with you and being part of the same good plan God dreams for our time. Wondering about that together. I still plan to keep in touch and ask for your prayer, and your patience if I am slow to respond.
With much affection and gratitude,
Ann