In The Patient's Shoes (Or Socks)

Yesterday the surgery went without a hitch. I never did see my surgeon because I was out as quick as a wink before he walked into the OR. I woke up in recovery to a kind nurse named Sharon, who answered all of my hoarse, raspy questions (I was intubated during surgery, and it irritated my vocal chords). “Did everything go well? Do I have a bandage? How many liters of O2 am I on?…”

“Yes, there were no complications. You don’t have a dressing, just durmabond (it’s like glue). You’re on 4 liters at 98%.” As I woke up more, I began moaning and laboring to breathe, and she gave me Dilaudid as soon as she deciphered that I was in pain.

All of my nurses great. But, I must say, Tim has been the best nurse. And he doesn’t get any breaks like the others. I woke him up several times during the night, and he never once complained. He fetches everything I need, helps me move around, prepares the food (which our church family is bringing to us), etc. It’s not easy to be so dependent, but it’s a good object lesson of our absolute dependence on God.

So, I guess this is what it’s like to be the patient’s shoes (or socks, rather, since few patients have the chance to keep their shoes on). It’s good to go through the pain and the procedures, not only to deepen my faith, but also to bring me to a place of greater compassion for others.