As I sat in the waiting area of Vanderbilt Oncology Center, my thoughts wandered back to my pilgrimage to the Mayo Clinic several years ago. This morning I had the opportunity to help a friend who had to have a medical procedure done, and needed some support. I gladly came along to offer even a moment of brevity in what is certainly a serious situation. As I waited for him, my mind drifted to memories of the Mayo and my lengthy stay there. This story was written during that incredible experience.

The changing seasons mark my stay at St. Mary’s Hospital in Minnesota, part of the famed Mayo Clinic.  The summer green has turned to autumn gold, and then the early winter wind and gray blows the life out of everything.  There’s a solemnity hanging around like the last pumpkins at the farm stand, the one’s that no one wants, now turning soft with age.  The prognosticators are forecasting snowflakes for tomorrow.  Snowflakes in Minnesota could be serious.  I will take shelter in my comfy hospital room and pretend to sit by a crackling fire, when in fat I’m laying next to my gurgling chest tube pump.   My time here at the Mayo has been life changing in many ways, and I’m surprised by the sadness that envelops me as I think of going home.  This is not a place that one wishes to frequent, but I have loved being here, as odd as that sounds.  This is medicine at it’s finest.

Incessant pain…ugh, it hurts.  No relief as I am unable to get into a comfortable position, just two days post op from major thoracic surgery.  I don’t have cancer, that’s the good news.  I’m so very tired.  Four long years wracked with pain from the start, and still no definite answers to the questions surrounding my illness.  Just cut them out, get these unknown masses out of me.  Having been “reassured” by the Chief of Surgery at the Mayo, who by the way, wanted to take my case because as he stated, “I’ve never seen anything like it in twenty five years of practicing medicine”, these masses may or may not be the cause of the pain that has been my constant companion.  Cause or effect?  Now that ‘s the million-dollar question isn’t it?  It’s been a long fight, and I’m ready to make peace with my body.  So many lessons learned through illness and suffering, “seek to understand” being one of them. I’ve tried to implement that and it has allowed new doors to open.  Things are not always as they appear. I’m just trying to sprinkle the fairy dust around the fifth floor of St. Mary’s hospital.  Be a blessing, look for the blessing, even in the midst of pain and suffering.  Remember past graces and keep going. This magical place, the Mayo Clinic, has been home to me, safe and secure from the rest of my life.  I’ve been free from anything more than selecting my lunch options, that being the most important decision I make on a daily basis.  The psychology of allowing patients to control their powerless hospital routine by being masters of their menu selection is sheer brilliance.  Feeling weak and out of control, having the ability to choose chicken broth over cherry Jell-O, means so much in what is an otherwise boring, uneventful day. Uneventful that is, if you think having tubes coming out of every orifice of your body and then some, is somehow normal.

My stay here at the Mayo began after weeks of doctor’s consultations attempting to determine just what was wrong with me.  Surgery was imminent, as the masses pressing on my thoracic aorta had almost doubled in size.  Even after the twelve-inch biopsy needle inserted through my back failed to yield a definitive answer, I was told that they had to come out. The first few post operative days were a glorious mix of excruciating pain and the warm dreaminess of morphine as I floated just above reality. The pain of chest tubes sutured in place, four incisions, coupled with the fact that the surgeon had to poke his fingers through my rib cage was the reality part. The narcotics administered through the IV had a little black button attached so that with just a push I could be transported to that beautiful place above this earthly realm, that was the other part of my stay at St. Mary’s.  The days and nights were warm and hazy accentuated by indescribable pain.  I’ve never experienced anything like that, and may I never experience it again.

One night while lying in bed drifting easily between varying states of drug induced haze and semi conscious reality, I noticed a women being admitted to the room across the hall. Her face was still and peaceful as they wheeled her by.  The glass panel of my hospital room door served as a mirror, so I could faintly see the newly arrived patient.  After all of the bustling activity of getting her settled into bed and hooked up to numerous tubes and lines, they left her to ret.  The sight of this woman moved my spirit, and I committed to pray for her, and pray I did.   With little else to occupy my time, and an acute awareness of drawing nearer to God through my own struggle, I asked God to comfort her.  Throughout the night her agony was evident in the song of moaning and coughing that seemed to last forever. As I slipped in and out of sleep, I would listen to her discomfort and pray. As morning dawned, I could see her reflection, and hear the sounds associated with a pulmonary surgical floor. Yuck.  It’s worse when it’s happening to someone else.  You can handle your own stuff, but another patient?  Tough to hear.  As my healing progressed I was able to get up with assistance from a couple of nurses and a special podium walker that makes it possible to lean and stand somewhat erect. I fear I resembled an ape more than a human at that point in my progress as I hunched over that walker and held on for dear life, taking those first few tentative steps, IV pole and chest tube machine in tow.  The first order of business on my assisted journey was to peek my head into the room across the hall and introduce myself to the woman I had been praying for.  We met her daughter and learned they had flown in from Canada for the surgery. Winning the Canadian lottery resulted in her having the finances to pay for the cancer surgery.  I shared with them how I was moved to pray for her, especially that first difficult night.  They were dear people and sharing such dire circumstances with strangers makes you fast friends.  Over the next week we visited and enjoyed some smiles and laughter.  The morning the woman across the hall was being discharged, her daughter wheeled her into my room to say goodbye and good luck.  As they were getting ready to leave they handed us a card.  After they left, we opened it, and spilling out was a cute little angel pin, and a stack of brand new twenty dollar bills totaling one thousand dollars!  All we could do was look dumbstruck at each other and thank the Lord.

Other blessings abounded on the fifth floor of the Mayo Clinic.  The Mennonite lady, whose farmer husband collapsed and had emergency lung surgery, is another example. She took no prisoners, stern and of good German stock no doubt. Came to find out that they were in the middle of harvest and had almost twelve hundred ripe acres that were interrupted by illness. Their entire labor and income for the year hung in the balance.  A continuous stream of Mennonite friends and family held vigil outside her husband’s room.  One evening we heard the echoes of voices raised in chorus from way down at the end of the pulmonary wing.  A local church sent some Christmas carolers to minister to the patients at the hospital.  As the voices trailed off in the distance, I heard the Mennonite farmer lady announce that she thought our end of the hall needed some cheering up too, and off she marched.  Next thing we know, the entire group of carolers, and the French horns were in my hospital room singing and playing “Oh Holy Night” at the top of their lungs. I think she put the fear of God in those poor folks.  But God bless her, we had Christmas cheer!  The next day she stopped by my room and gave me an apple from one of their trees.  I tell you this was the biggest apple I have ever seen.  It was the size of a small cantaloupe. That beautiful piece of fruit sat proudly on my tray table, and became the impetus for numerous double takes as passersby would stop in their tracks and ask me if that thing was real.  Some great conversations occurred as a result of the Mennonite farmer lady’s generous spirit of giving.  Thank you Lord.

The riotous colors of autumn have all blown away, having spent thirty-one days here at St. Mary’s and the Mayo Clinic.  The sadness that surprised me at the thought of leaving has turned to the joy of anticipation, as I’m going home tomorrow. I can’t wait to feel human again!