Tears

POST ONE: Monday, December 13, 2010
The last three days have been crying days.  Tears.  Tears.  And more tears.

In the busyness of caring for my parents I have put on "the game face."  I was in task mode.  I held back any fears and uncertainties that I had because I didn't want them to get in the way of being strong for them.

Well, that "game face" fell off about 2:15pm on Monday (December 6).  At 2:00pm I wheeled my mom down to the Operating Room.  I grabbed her arm firmly and said, "You'll do great.  I'll see you later.  I love you."  The two gentlemen who wheeled her gurney downstairs then pushed her through the infamous double doors--the ones I couldn't pass through.  My heart leaped with tangled disappointment.  "I should have kissed her forehead!" I shouted to myself; "I just want to kiss her!  I didn't because I wanted to stay strong for her.  And now I regret with every fiber of who I am that I didn't kiss her."  I wrestled with the possibilities of knocking on the doors.  Should I?  Can I?  Do I?  I didn't.  I should have.  But, I didn't.

As I slowly made my way back up the long meandering pathways to the elevators I found a quiet place to cry.  I sat there.  By myself.  And cried.  People walked by.  I never made eye contact.  I just sat there.  By myself.  Just me, my thoughts, and my tears.

You see, at that point I didn't have my mom or my dad to be strong for.  My dad was in post-op recovery.  His surgery was slated for 5:00am.  His recovery should have ended by that 2:00 time frame, but it hadn't.  We had had no word on how he was other than, "He's out of surgery and doing fine.  He'll be back to his room in about an hour,"  Well, that hour had passed long ago and we were still waiting.  I desperately wanted my mom to know how my dad was doing prior to her going into surgery, but God did not author it that way--so we thought.  Her desperate yearned-ness to find out how he was doing was to no avail.  Each gurney that passed her as she was wheeled to the OR did not have my father on it.  "Is that him?" she would inquire as we passed another gurney.  Her body would pop up sharply hoping to grab a glimpse of her love.  And yet, no.

Back to me crying in the hallway.

I gathered myself.  Wiped away my tears.  Took some deep, cleansing breaths and headed back to my mom's recovery room.  It wasn't empty because my husband and a family friend were there.  When I arrived I got the heart-piercing question: "How are you doing?"  How am I doing?  How am I doing?  I could have handled ANY question, but not that one.  Not that one.

The tears started all over again.  My husband held me while I cried.  He didn't comfort me with petty platitudes or disconnected, unconcerned speech.  He listened.  He said I needed to go outside and walk.  I was hesitant.  I was yearning deeply to know the condition of my father.  How was he doing?  I didn't know.  I wanted to know.  I didn't know.

So, we went for a walk.  Outside.  Fresh air.  No hospital noise.

As we walked...

I conversed with God.  I wrestled in my inner-man and came fully to this: "LORD, no matter what You have authored, I'm ok with it."  I had been without both of my parents for about an hour at that point.  It was a deep, empty, alone, hollow feeling.  I had no clue what God's authorship had planned.  But, in a humble posture of faith, I said, "LORD, Your ways are higher than mine.  You know best.  Do what brings Your name glory."  It was REALLY hard to say that, and yet I know that being in that place brought me much peace.  His authorship.  His design.  His glory alone.  Period.

Jason and I continued to walk.

Twenty minutes later my cell phone rang: "Hello, Melissa?  This is Christy with UC Davis Medical Center.  I have your dad on the line and he wants to talk to you.  Here he is."

Eyebrows pop up.  Game face goes on.  I say, "Hey, Dad!  I took mom to the Operating Room.  She's in surgery.  Everything is going just great.  How are you?"

"Oh, my throat hurts and it feels like someone punched me in the stomach, but I'm doing ok.  They're gonna wheel me down in a bit.  I'll see you in a few.  Love you!" was his reply.

"I'll see you in a bit.  I love you, Dad.  Bye," I said.

I instantly grabbed Jason and wailed hard and loud, "Thank you, Jesus!  Thank you, Jesus!  Thank you, Jesus!  Thank you, Jesus!  Thank you, Jesus!  Thank you, Jesus!" 

Together, we cried.

At that very moment a red, medic helicopter landed on the roof of the 14-story medical center.  At the time we didn't know it, but my mom's kidney had just arrived.

We went back upstairs to floor 8 of University Tower to my dad's room.  It was utopia to stroke his hair, kiss his forehead, hear his voice, to talk to him and see him.  It was so beautiful; there truly are no words to describe it all.

Abraham.  As I look at my journey around the hospital I can't help but wonder what Abraham's journey up the mountain was like.  When God called Abraham to sacrifice his only son he and Isaac were headed to the region of Moriah (Genesis 22).  What conversations did Abraham have with God along the way?  Up the mountain?  Did he say, "LORD, whatever Your plans are I know they are designed to bring You glory"?  Did he wrestle with the black and white of yes and no?  Did he hope beyond hope that God would spare His son?  Were there any doubts along the way?  Was he afraid?  Beloved, we will never know.

God didn't tell me to sacrifice my child.  He called me to trust Him.  It isn't easy.  But it sure is beautiful.

Faithfully,
Humbly,
Melissa Culver

POST TWO: Monday, December 13, 2010
Friday night was the first time that my parents and I were together again after the whole hospital thing.  And my dad says to me, "Mel, you had to have thought at some point there was the possibility that you could have lost one of us in this ordeal.  It's bad enough having one parent go through a major surgery, but you had both of us in there.  You had to have pondered at one point that you could have lost both of us."

Dad!  Wow!  Please don't feel like you have to hold back.  Seriously.

Right out there.  All three of us are wiping away tears.  My transparency came out:
Yes, absolutely.  I for sure thought about it.  But, I tried not to think of any of those possibilities for long. 

The hardest part for me during this process was when I didn't have either of you.  Mom had been wheeled to the OR and you had been in post-op recovery longer than anticipated.  I didn't have access to mom or dad.  I didn't have to be strong for anyone anymore.  My game face fell off and I cried.  That hour long block was VERY hard.

I ached for mom because she absolutely wanted to see you before she went into surgery and I was sad that she didn't get that.  She kept hoping that she would pass you in the hallway and she never did.  That was heart-wrenching for me to see.

I was so glad that mom was able to call us at 4:00pm just before surgery.  I thought that she had already been knocked out right after 2:00pm.  I didn't know that they didn't start her surgery until 4:00pm.  It was awesome that she was able to call and talk to me and find out that you were doing great right before they did the surgery.

It was a pure, pure time for us to cry together.

Grateful,
Melissa Culver

POST THREE: Monday, December 13, 2010
I didn't realize how much my dad was emotionally broken up over these events until he had a chance to cry on Saturday.

All day long he found it impossible to talk to anyone.  I was oblivious to this until mom said, "He's been on the verge of tears all day."

Where was I?  I think I was just thinking he's a man.  He's cool.  He's like steel: immovable, unshakable, solid.

And yet, under that outer, man-core you find his heart.  I rubbed his back while he cried.  I soon found out the depths of his heart.  You see, he was fully aware that he could have died.  Fully aware that death was a possibility.  And he was willing to die for his wife.  Knowingly.  He was fully aware that his bride could have died as well.  Or, that complications could have developed post-surgery. 

He didn't know what the other side of surgery was going to look like.  He had no clue.  His linear, sequential, organized brain had pondered the possibilities along the way.  He was aware of the risks. 

Tears.  And tears.  Frank was SO COMPLETELY overjoyed that God had authored GOOD for him, his bride, and ALL of the patients involved.  He wasn't numb to the greatness of God.  He was simply surrendering himself to whatever God's design had planned for him.  To be HERE on this side of surgery with everything going so well, it was just too much joy for him to handle. 

He AND his bride have a new life together.  A new life.  God has given them a new life together.  No more kidney failure.  No more dialysis.  No more dietary restrictions (four pages long that is).  No more half-life with poor oxygenation and sluggishness.  Alive.  They are both alive and God has given them many more years together.

Additionally, he shared with me that my willingness to serve them in their time of need has blessed him beyond words.  He can't get over how I have jumped to the task to meet EVERY need, wish, want, desire, or hiccup they have.  He has been blown away by my love for them.  Blown away.  My parents shed tears and said, "We are soooo glad that God gave us a daughter.  So unbelievably grateful."  (They are absolutely grateful for thier son.  And, they are blessed beyond words that God authored for them a daughter who could serve them in this season of deep, deep need.)

When God is this good it's hard to handle it.

Isaiah 45:18

For this is what the LORD says—
he who created the heavens,
he is God;
he who fashioned and made the earth,
he founded it;
he did not create it to be empty,
but formed it to be inhabited—
he says:
“I am the LORD,
and there is no other.

Isaiah 48:17

This is what the LORD says—
your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel:
“I am the LORD your God,
who teaches you what is best for you,
who directs you in the way you should go.

His ways are beyond our comprehension.

Thank you, LORD!

Humbly,
Melissa Culver