Rachel's Rhythm

The month of February we spent in the beautiful city of Cuenca and while there, I had what we thought to be some kind of intestinal issue, perhaps due to different foods and place. Fast forward to April, when I had some pelvic pain and decided to follow up on a large ovarian cyst they had detected in February. After testing and consulting, it was decided that I should have surgery to have it removed. While the doctor didn't say it was an emergency, she did encourage us to schedule surgery within two weeks. Our May calendar is bursting at the seams, so we felt the sooner, the better. We spent Easter weekend in a very different way, playing phone tag with the doctors and the insurance company to get all the paperwork lined up in order to have the authorization for the surgery. A little over a week after my 38th birthday, I went in for the laparoscopic surgery.

The morning of surgery, we surprisingly fit in a follow up appointment with my family practice doctor (about another issue), follow up appointment with the pediatrician for Benji, a quick piano class for Benji, some homeschool work while waiting, a quick dash home for an overnight bag and then on our way to the hospital. Prep for O.R. and I was wheeled away around 2 PM. Later, I would learn that the surgery was more complicated than expected, the cyst was larger than depicted in the ultrasounds and while we suspected endometriosis, it was much more severe than anticipated. My right ovary was heavily compromised and the decision was made to have it removed. I remember being awake that night in the hospital, in pain, but needing to wait for hours to pass for the next push of medicine, and wanting to cry but not having the strength. Instead, I played worship music on my phone and pushed my thoughts towards the melodies. God is near to the broken-hearted.

Despite being fluent in Spanish, my language skills quickly deteriorate when tired and my medical vocabulary is almost none. Nurses did rounds and spoke to me and I found myself constantly asking them to repeat their questions or comments, trying to will my brain to understand. Miraculously, one of the on-call doctors on the night rounds spoke perfect English.... sweet mercy! The entire staff was kind and compassionate and as I was almost ready to be released, a nurse helped me shower and even brushed and braided my hair before sending me on my way. That tender act gave me the hope that I needed.

A friend sent over a casserole and some books, one of which is called "Braiding Sweetgrass" by Robin Wall Kimmerer.

A sheaf of sweetgrass, bound at the end and divided into thirds, is ready to braid. In braiding sweetgrass—so that it is smooth, glossy, and worthy of the gift—a certain amount of tension is needed. As any little girl with tight braids will tell you, you have to pull a bit. Of course you can do it yourself—by tying one end to a chair, or by holding it in your teeth and braiding backward away from yourself—but the sweet- est way is to have someone else hold the end so that you pull gently against each other, all the while leaning in, head to head, chatting and laughing, watching each other’s hands, one holding steady while the other shifts the slim bundles over one another, each in its turn. Linked by sweetgrass, there is reciprocity between you, linked by sweetgrass, the holder as vital as the braider. The braid becomes finer and thinner as you near the end, until you’re braiding individual blades of grass, and then you tie it off.

Will you hold the end of the bundle while I braid? Hands joined by grass, can we bend our heads together and make a braid to honor the earth? And then I’ll hold it for you, while you braid, too. (Preface)

Something about the act of my hair being braided by a complete stranger and then to read about braiding just a day later, reminds me of the essence of community. Friends who send casseroles and others who took in Benji at a moment's notice. Messages of encouragement. Quiet reassurances that I am not alone.

I am (mostly) staying off of google searches and waiting for the biopsy to come back from what was removed so that I can meet with my surgeon/doctor. I am slowly recovering physically and praying that somehow as the physical heals I can process and heal emotionally as well. As someone who has struggled with secondary infertility and already feeling a bit depressed to have another birthday come and go with no pregnancy, the surgery and its implications have cut deeper than the knife itself.

To be filled, first there must be an emptying.

So, I pray in this most recent emptying, that the Lord would meet me here.