The Emergency of Vision
You're gonna be okay.
“Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face
And stars fill my dream
I'm a traveler of both time and space
To be where I have been
To sit with elders of the gentle race
This world has seldom seen
They talk of days for which they sit and wait
All will be revealed
Talk in song from tongues of lilting grace
Sounds caress my ear
And not a word I heard could I relate
The story was quite clear”
Kashmir, Led Zeppelin
Yes, brazen. I walked back in the house. I grabbed the book You told me to. I took the emergency flight to hold my dad’s hand, hug my mom and was almost done when the jet landed.
Slow motion, I walked to the bus that would drive me to the countryside, reflections of strangers faces in the windows. Where were they going? Where is this going? Can you take me straight to the hospital neighbor. Thank you.
You were there. He was lucid. Spoke of drug deals that never went down. He was a police officer, on duty with our oldest son. He called nurses by my daughter’s name through his excitement. Told one nurse she was always so lovely since she was a little girl.
Lesions are everywhere the small framed doctor said. Rips, tears, jagged edges lacing their way through his body is how it spelled out in the cartoon bubble of my thoughts. No longer contained behind thin walls of membrane, it had escaped. That c word I won’t adorn with an uppercase.
But You. You were there. Every morning You would wake me with a church song playing loud in my head, as if to drown out the lesions. You gave me songs I hadn’t heard in so long. Was I crazy? Songs of hope, love and a vision. You.
You held me. Then those songs went silent as the new year dove into a previous year and pain drowned them out.
I woke last Friday morning, 5 a.m. with an elephant standing on my chest, crushing my back, but You gave me songs. You gave me hope, love and a vision. I was going to be okay.
You're gonna be okay
You're, you're gonna be okay
Oh, the sun will keep on risin' in that old familiar way
And every little thing is gonna be okay
Be Okay, Lauren Daigle & Ellie Holcomb
Those songs came back. She sang them so well. I played them, wrote about them, drowned in them. I’m gonna be okay.
Hours later pacing, moaning, move, move, move, it’s just indigestion, it will subside. You’ve got this like those weird times in the past when… Stretch, oh God no. Black bile was all over the sink, but you’re married to a business owner who carries elephants all day… Call him. Call him. Please call him.
“I need you to take me to emergency.”
Okay, on my way.
Why did I have a mid-life crisis and buy a 6-speed? He told me not to. Oh God. Why is there so much traffic at 11 a.m., semi-trucks, brakes, down-shifting, ninety degrees outside clinging like a baby to my log cabin blanket. God it’s cold.
I don’t remember the emergency waiting room much, but the faces looking at mine for a minute reminded me of football. My son was playing and I was running along the field with my big film camera, Zeppelin was playing. “You’re gonna be okay.” Did you all know that? This was a city hospital, city style. You can wait. Don’t scream. Wait was that soccer? I did that. I really did that. It was so fun. I’m gonna pass out.
John told me later a nice lady held me while he parked the car. I don’t remember her.
Thank you. Thank You.
“Is your wife a marathoner?”
I could see John’s face looking above my head. “No, she’s not. Why does it say 49?” Her heart. Her heart isn’t like that. God give me a song, my back needs it, can you take the elephant for a walk? I can’t lay down. Okay sit. It’s heavy.
I’m trying to be a brave soldier. Like him. He said that. I said that. I just said that.
John said. “I know.”
Oh God you gave me a vision. A song. I’ve seen the work of Your Hands. I’ve cried out to you. I think everyone in the waiting room knows Jesus now. Maybe. I know I was saying your name a lot. I’m traveling in time and space and I’m above it all and the sun is risin. It’s risin. The lights in here are pounding my head. I promise whatever this is, I accept it with grace. And with grace I’ll deal with it. I got this. You have me.
The double doors thundered open by my room, I could see their feet, glimpses of badges, stats, screaming. One more test, then another and another. Still another. More blood. They’re taking more. I’m gonna throw up. Thank you for the fancy bag. She’s screaming again. I think it was someone else. Can I hug her. I can’t move. The morphine. Maybe shut the opening in my curtain. It’s killing me. Why is there a party out there. It’s still open. Go feed the dogs. He’s gone.
I can tell it’s dark now. There are children wailing nearby. Please hug them God. Give them a song. I’m ready for the news.
“Your wife has a 2.5cm gallstone stuck in the neck of the gallbladder.” It was actually 2.6. Got the test results with the fancy words that didn’t sound so good. I was a ticking time bomb.
Good riddance nasty, messed up hollow pear. “Sludge.” I don’t need you. Behold, I have a backup system. I’ll work harder at that good diet. I’ll make it gooder.
You give me songs, hope and a vision.
I will write it down always.
Cause I’m gonna be okay.
You’re gonna be okay.
We’re gonna be okay.
“Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it. For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay. - Habakkuk 2:2-3
My goodness, Deb, this was acutely terrifying to read; I felt I was right there, too. I can’t imagine how terrifying to live it. I hope you are doing better and recovering well. Sending healing prayers and love to you; I’m glad to see you back!
Stay strong and keep healing ❤️