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Hold My Hand

Originally preached November 16, 2014.

Are any of you folks dealing with seemingly never ending physical and/or emotional pain this morning? Has the Lord brought people into your lives that are? If you answered in the affirmative today’s message ought to be helpful. I’ll be citing excerpts from what I believe is the most helpful book dealing with the issue of chronic pain. Allow me to explain,
I [Jane] have memories of a wonderful childhood. From the very beginning my parents showed me that life is full, rich and fascinating. Endowed with a vivacious personality and coupled with strong determination, I have always loved rising to the challenges which life so generously offers. I have never been one to give up. I grew up believing that the exercise of will power, coupled with a modicum of ingenuity, would carry me through to the solution of any problem. It does not come easy for me, therefore, to discover that there are situations with which I cannot cope.

I have had a rude awakening. Pain has become a prominent thread in the tapestry of life and I have frequently been driven to the point of crying out in anguish, “I can’t bear any more!”

It was during four dark months in 1980 that I came closest to giving up all together. I can never adequately describe the totality of my exhaustion with illness, with pain, with life itself.

In February, when the crisis began, I was already profoundly weary from a chronic low-level pain. Though I knew it was “normal” for me, I still winced every time I moved too vigorously and felt the heavy ache. Painkillers were either not strong enough or they made me feel sick. Anyway, I tended not to take them, as I feared that they would loose their effect if I took them too often. I dreaded having nothing to fall back on.

Pain began to be an unwelcome part of every conversation, so much that I would secretly think I hope this ends soon; I need to rest. Yet I couldn’t rest, for the pain made me restless. And if I were alone I would yearn for conversations, to distract me. Neither I nor my caring friends could win. There was no remedy.I easily became irritable, which in turn made me more irritable because I knew I was being short-tempered and hated myself for it.

On top of this situation, acute pain broke in. At first I thought I was pregnant. For two weeks, my spirits rose, only to be dampened by the extra tiredness. As the pain increased, my excitement faded. My experience as a midwife told me that my symptoms were ominous.

Somehow I managed to keep working. As a registered nurse I cared for lots of patients who were complaining of pain, but inside I felt rather unsympathetic toward those who were obviously not genuine. I would catch a glimpse of them giggling with their boyfriends in the waiting room before they saw the doctor, when they would suddenly look very sorry for themselves and moan dramatically of “terrible pain, Doctor.” I was often temped to say, “You’ve no idea what terrible pain is if you can giggle through it.” But I did not speak.

One of the doctors for whom I worked was Richard, my own doctor. I was not ready to talk about myself-least of all to him. I suppose I knew too well what he might find if he examined me. Still, I kept going. Every evening I would drive home along the foggy Midlands roads and just flop into bed. My husband Matthew ate his meals at the seminary, so he didn’t realize that I wasn’t cooking. He was so tired that he slept soundly through my fitful hours of trying to find a comfortable sleeping position.

On one particular Tuesday I was unable to walk briskly around the wards. I had to collect blood samples for research from a patient in labor. While I was doing so, the other midwife with me was so comforting toward the patient that I found myself wishing I were on the receiving end of such comfort. Instead I tried simply to keep going, keep going…

In everything I did, I had to give myself instructions. Keep walking down this corridor. You can do it.

Walk over to pick up a syringe and needle. Force yourself. Walk over there. Keep upright.

Smile to that person. Make your eyes smile as well so he won’t detect how much pain you’re in.

The fighting part of my nature was determined not to give in. I hoped that if I ignored the pain it might all just resolve itself. If anyone had perceived the agony I was in and had asked about it, I would have crumpled. In one way I longed for my pain to be noticed-yet at the same time I was terrified of what it might mean.

On Wednesday I had to help with some student’s medical exams. I like to pull them down a peg or two from the pompous stance they all assumed to terrify the medical students. They, in turn, were so bored with examining with examining that they enjoyed a bit of banter. I had quite a reputation for being fun.

That Wednesday, though, I was very subdued. There was none of the usual dramatics and singing, and at the end of the morning session Richard asked me about it.

”You all right?” he asked quietly as we walked across an enclosed bridge for lunch. The door at the end was open, revealing tables laden with delicious food and girls in starched white hats ready to serve us generously. I thought I might vomit at the sight of it.

“Not bad,” I replied, carefully averting my eyes from him lest he read the truth.

Richard looked at me incredulously and for the first time I dared to meet his gaze. “I think perhaps I need some antibiotics.”

There. I’d said it. Surely I could be pleased with myself. I could tell Matthew later that I had “confessed,” and he would be pleased and relieved. A few antibiotics would clear everything up, wouldn’t they?

Richard looked at me for a minute, then agreed.

“Okay. Get a prescription pad and I’ll sign it.”

I slipped quietly out of the room. By now my abdomen felt as if it were on fire. I knew I should not have tried to appear so calm and composed in front of Richard. I should have asked him at a more appropriate time when he could have examined me properly. He always trusted me to ask, and this time I had deliberately made it difficult for him. I was afraid.

Never mind, I consoled myself. The antibiotics will soon work.

The afternoon passed. I longed to lie down or even lean over a table and rest my head on my tummy.

I took the prescription pad to Richard, and after he signed it he looked up.

“You shouldn’t be here. Get home and start chewing these.” He added a request for a huge bottle of strong painkillers.

“You won’t take these all at once, will you?” He laughed heartedly at his joke. I forced a weak smile. I could not laugh, because even the muscular movement of laughter caused the pain to sear through me. Perhaps it wasn’t such a joke.

I did not go straight home. I went to my sister’s office and wrote up all the outstanding reports, dealt with all correspondence and tidied up my files. I didn’t want to leave until I knew everything was in order and up to date. I must have sensed that I would not be there again for a long time.

I spent the following days in bed. Matthew’s face became more and more anxious, though he always tried to cheer me up whenever he brought me food and beverages. Every time he had to remove a tray of food I hadn’t managed to eat, his face set a little more. He knew I was getting worse, but neither of us wanted to be the first to say so. (1)

On Monday morning, neither Matthew nor I had any doubt as to what we should do. After a quick phone call to an understanding secretary in the department where I worked, I had an appointment to see Richard the same day.

I do not know quite how I got myself together enough to reach the doctors office. Matthew drove me there, taking immense care to avoid bumps in the road so as not to jolt my aching body. I refused his arm up the few stairs. Once again my age-old fear of being labeled a “sissy” was taunting me. I mustn’t be weak. It was hard and I had to cling to the banister for support but I made it independently.

As Matthew held open the door of the department, my absolute terror of what Richard might decide about me was temporarily put to one side. Every thought I had was focused on keeping going.

Once again I programed myself. Walk, Jane. Just get to that chair there and lean on that. Keep your body upright or they’ll see you and think you’re doing a dramatic mimic of a patient in pain. Don’t give them the opportunity to think you’re a fraud. Instead, make yourself look normal. Don’t stoop with the pain

I tormented myself with the thoughts that I may be taken as a fraud. I think this was because I so detested being treated as one in Edinburgh when I first became ill in 1976.I dreaded the idea of being ignored because I do not seem genuine. And yet when the pain is severe, I crave most of all the genuineness of somebodies care. So I force myself to look as normal as possible and try to keep from showing any signs of pain, so that only a genuinely caring person can perceive how I am underneath.

I heard Richard’s distinctive step. He beamed at me cheerfully. I swallowed hard and let go of Matthew’s hand, wondering what else I was letting go of in the process-my fighting, my pretending that all was better than it was.

“See you down in the examination room,” Richard called to me as he whisked into the secretary’s office to pick up my chart. He soon caught up with me. My progress was slow, every step an act of will. I wished that I did not have to walk with him beside me.

I thought I saw him glance down at my hand when I grasped involuntarily at my abdomen while taking a step that reverberated through me.He would be getting suspicious. Had he also noticed how distracted I was? Would he guess why?

The corridor seemed endless, but at last I was in the examination room. With relief I almost fell into the black plastic chair to which Richard had gestured. I could not relax, though, lest my face accidentally reveal the contortion that I felt inside.

I was still so afraid he would think I was a coward. I wanted to show my composure. I worked for the man-I didn’t want to give him reason to stop respecting me.

I answered Richard’s questions very briefly, for even the effort of speaking increased my discomfort; but I was honest. After scribbling a few notes, Richard leaned over to take my pulse. There was silence as he counted.

He fiddled with his new digital watch, his face puzzled. He has still not figured out how to use it,I wondered. I would frequently tease him that it was maybe too complicated for him, but today there was none of our usual light-hearted banter. I closed my eyes, sensing that I was beginning to take on the passive role of a patient. I felt I was being forced to “give in,” even if that made me more vulnerable. I couldn’t overcome the pain by fighting it or by ignoring it. It had overcome me.

“A hundred and thirty-six?” The surprise in Richard’s voice was mixed with obvious concern. I was so accustomed to fighting for a doctor to take my condition seriously that I now didn’t know what to say.

But Richard was not waiting for me to reply; he was counting once again.

“Your pulse is 136, Jane.” His face normally rather mischievous with his dark mustache and dimples, was quite neutral. “Bit high, isn’t it?” His endeavor to remain unperturbed in front of me, were countered by my seeing his pen circling my pulse rate strongly on my case notes. “I’d better examine you.”

I got onto the couch, raising my legs slowly to avoid jarring my abdomen. I realized it was no use pretending any longer. I could have wept-but not just from the pain. My mind was totally confused. I didn’t know whether to be relieved that at last I was being seen as I really was, or to be afraid of the seriousness of my situation. Physical pain and emotional distress form a potent and destructive partnership.

After he had finished, Richard straightened his arms and leaned the palms of his hands on the couch.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” It was more of a statement than a question. I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice wouldn’t work.

The long uphill struggle toward recovery after an operation is still vivid to me at this moment. As I write, I am again recovering from yet more surgery. Another…and another. The word surgery is so simply written, but each time it denotes a particular experience of seemingly unending suffering. In one sense it’s as if I have a nightmare that has repeated itself yet again. Only I do not dream it-I have to live it. And therein lies my agony. If it were a nightmare, I would hope to wake up and discover the freedom of the pains absence. How often that has been my greatest longing. And how often it has seemed that to die would indeed be gain for me. I know that I am not alone. Others-many others in this life long only for release. They feel utterly trenched in, and surrounded by their own form of pain-physical or other.

Last month a woman I know suddenly collapsed. Within two weeks she died. At the funeral I watched her husband and three teenage children. Their faces, though mourning, were serenely radiant. They were confident that Sylvia was now with her Lord in a place where she knew no more pain, no more tears. (2)

The aspect of being face to face with Jesus was very important to me. Each time I have nearly died, I have been conscious of Jesus very close to me-so close that I would hardly have been surprised if His presence had become a physical thing. He would have reached out and taken my hand. For onlookers I suppose that would have been the moment of my death, but for me it would have been the beginning of true life. (3)

Thinking of Sylvia made me long for the comfort of the nearness of dying, of God’s nearness, of the promise of a wonderful, permanent future. It was easy for me to be convinced by the truth that “to die is gain.” I could clearly understand that I would discover eternal gain in death. It was much more difficult, however, to welcome the other half of that verse: “For to me to live is Christ.” It was a struggle to find Christ in my life, even life with so much pain and suffering.

I found myself in a reaction near to bitterness. I had been so near to this wonderful reception in which Sylvia was rejoicing-and yet so far. Would it not have been an appropriate ending to a long saga of unexplained suffering if I had died triumphantly? But this was not part of God’s plan for my life. Jesus did not come to take me by the hand and lead me to His Father. He did not give the release we had anticipated. He has called me to remain, living in pain.

Perhaps He has led me gently, but I cannot say it always feels gentle. The full force of realizing that He wants me to face this second best place-on-earth-can still be devastating. At such times I desperately need to be reassured by the Lord that His way and His timing are perfect.

Once I received exactly such reassurance. Lying in the hospital one day in 1980, semi-conscious, semi-drugged, I suddenly became aware of a great clarity of mind I knew without a doubt that the thoughts in my head were very important. Reaching for a pen and a scrape of paper, I began to write, phrase by phrase. I did not know the exact sentence until I had written the first.

It was as though God were directly giving me His words of comfort for the darkness that was to follow.

You long for death because that is where you know I’ll be. In fact the end is not death, but when you reach the end of your resources-where you cannot cope, you cannot bear any more. That is where I am.

Therefore prepare yourself for this end, first of all by recognizing that it exists-that you will feel desperate and lonely. Then, while you are cool and rational, see ahead that I will be there.

You cannot long for this end because it is too dreadful, too dark. But it’s reassuring to know that this is where you meet fully with Me. So, Jane, I do not expect you to look forward to, or to look back on them with you. But you needn’t dread them so much. I understand. Remember My hour in Gethsemane! (4)

There’s obviously a lot more to say about this issue. I just scratched the surface today.

Lord willing, next week….

1. A Pathway Through Pain © 1990 by Jane Grayshon. Published by special arrangement with Kingsway Publications, Eastbourne, England. All rights reserved. Printed by Dickenson Press, Inc. Grand Rapids, Michigan. Pages 16-20
2. Ibid. Page 80
3. Ibid. Page 84
4. Ibid. Pages 85-86

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September 27, 2015 Posted by Categories: Uncategorized 2 comments

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