Richard L. Morgan

I stood in reverent silence outside room 509 at Grace Hospital. While visiting a friend on that same floor, I suddenly found myself returning to the room where I had been a patient one year ago to the day. Bustling nurses scurried around, seeming in a quandary about attending to the needs of a patient recovering from prostate surgery. The present scene rekindled memories of the horrendous days and nights when I struggled with post-op complications from that same surgery. The past became vividly present. I had not been just a patient in that hospital; I had become its victim. I left the scene of my downfall and walked back to my car. I paused to take one final look at the place. Its gray walls seemed to protect outsiders from what happened within. From the outside it appeared silent and serene. On the inside it housed issues of life . . . and death, as I well knew.

I still cannot remember much about those seven days and nights. For a while my illness seemed only a blur, its trauma obscured by medication and the grace of God. What happened to me sent me into a strange world that remains a ghostly figment of my mind. I remember looking up and seeing that I was being given blood transfusions and wondering if I was dying. I do recall a never-to-be-forgotten dream in which I had driven all night and suddenly saw the most incredible sunrise I had ever seen; I had no desire to leave that experience. I will always wonder how close I came to that other shore.

My wife later told me that on the third day after surgery she found me in complete disarray. I was strapped in a Posey jacket, surrounded by soiled linen, with blood everywhere. No one seemed available to explain my situation or apologize for such negligence. Later a pastor told me that she had been prevented from visiting me by a nurse who told her I was "in critical condition."

Now voices returned that spoke of pain, life and death, and muddled procedures. Nurses seemed like ghostly figures who probed and prodded private parts. The surgeon appeared as some invincible Rambo who was bewildered because he could effect no quick fix. A few visitors came and went, but my sense was that they hurried to leave, wanting someone to reassure them that I was OK. No one explained what happened or related to my anxiety.

My surgery (transurethral prostatectomy) was successful, with "unremarkable results." The biopsy indicated no evidence of cancer. The problems began on the second post-op day when nurses removed the catheter too soon and their attempts to recatheterize me were unsuccessful. According to the surgeon's report, "They managed to blow up the 30 cc. balloon in the prostatic urethra, which resulted in excessive bleeding from the prostate." Hemorrhagic anemia ensued, which necessitated several transfusions and multiple medications. Two days later a second attempt by nurses at recatheterization failed, more bleeding occurred, and I suffered minimal mental confusion, compounded by my own anxiety. These complications caused severe weakness and prolonged my recovery by several weeks. I returned home feeling like a wounded old dog who had suffered a resounding defeat at the hands of a younger foe and crawled home to lick his wounds. Never in all my life had I felt such weakness and utter dismay.

When I felt like seeing visitors, they were few and far between. Some called with mixed messages. They said, "We won't come to see you because we know you want to be alone." How did they know? What they meant was, "We'd rather not deal with your pain." The few who came seemed ill at ease, and I never knew whether they would discuss their problems or the pennant races. None asked anything specific about how I felt.

Visitors tried to cheer me up, but their well-intentioned remarks actually brought me further down. Some shared macabre war stories of similar surgeries. Others spoke of men who had "breezed through this with no problems." One minister seemed to take delight in telling me about a parishioner who had had the same surgery and "was chopping wood in two weeks." The one who came to comfort me had become my accuser. I wanted to ask his forgiveness for my pain. I did receive some encouraging get-well cards, but one devout lady not only sent me a card with Scripture verses but cited Exodus (15:26) as well, writing "I am praying that the Lord will not put any more disease on you."

The visits prompted me to recall my own pastoral visits. For more than 40 years as a parish pastor and hospital chaplain I had visited more people in hospitals and sickrooms than I could remember. Sometimes I was a helpful presence, but more often than I like to admit, I was not. I recall reciting the usual Gospel platitudes or leaving sugar-coated Bible verses as I made a hasty exit from the place of sickness. How many times I offered canned prayers that had nothing to say to the real pain of the person.

With dismay I recalled how often I managed to distract people when they wanted to tell me about their illness or found some excuse to get out of the room when their sickness was more than I could bear. "Let me talk to your nurse about this" or "Perhaps I need to call your pastor" or "You need to talk to your doctor about this." Such were the tactics I used to avoid hearing about patients' feelings or risk being engulfed by their suffering.

One visit I recall with particular regret. A former parishioner who had had prostate surgery tried to mask his anxieties with humor. "Well, Dick, I hope I'm not ready for the pump yet," he said. Instead of allowing him to discuss his sexual fears, I responded with some inane remark and light banter. Yes, I confess I was no different from those ancient healers of whom the prophet spoke: "They had healed the hurt of my people slightly" (Jeremiah 6:14).

My sickness and long days and nights of recovery hurled me into a "dark night of the soul," that agonizing time when one seeks contact with God and finds only empty isolation. The religious beliefs that had sustained me when I was healthy and that promised smooth sailing through surgery were no longer working. I prayed, but the heavens seemed like brass. The words of the Bible were a blur. I had taken several spiritual books to the hospital to read but never opened them. I tried keeping a journal of some of my experience, but all I managed were half-scribbled sentences left on a hospital bed.

My anguish made me bombard the heavens with questions that had no answers: "Why me?" "Why did these complications happen to me?" "Why didn't I sail through this surgery as other men had done?" I had served God, like the elder brother, "all these many years," and this was my reward? I had just settled down to enjoy a well-deserved retirement, and it seemed as if I would never recover.

One interminable autumn day I began to wonder if I would ever get well, and I fantasized that I would spend my final days like this—confined at home, unable to drive, dependent on others for bare necessities, staring outside the window at a world that had suddenly come to a screeching halt. Becoming an old, disabled man no longer seemed a future possibility; it had become a present reality.

What helped turn me around were the Psalms, which emerge out of experiences of being overwhelmed, nearly destroyed, and surprisingly given life and hope. They speak about life as it really is, especially when sickness or crisis makes us aware that life is always precarious. In their honest record of the struggle for faith, I found in them my own story. The Bible "came alive," as my experience mirrored theirs.

Most people expected me to say the usual words about my sickness. The raw edges of my illness had to be denied or suppressed to protect the well. Not so the Psalms. There is no cover-up of feelings in the Psalms. The psalmists' expressions of pain, anger, and dismay that life is not always good helped me accept my own feelings. And, despite their anguish, they held out hope that life could be better, as did I.

I resonated with their experiences:

A fatal sickness has a grip on him; now that he is down, he will never get up again. (Psalm 41:8 NJB)

Have pity on me, Yahweh, for I am fading away. Heal me, Yahweh, my bones are shaken, my spirit is shaken to its very depths. But you, Yahweh . . . how long? (Psalm 6:2-3 NJB)

My heart beats fast, my strength has ebbed away . . . . My friends and my companions shun me in my sickness. (Psalm 38:10-11 NEB)

For my soul is full of trouble, and my life draws near the grave . . . . I am like a man without strength, . . . I am confined and cannot escape. (Psalm 88:3-4b NIV)

If they could be honest about their fear, so could I. If they had to suffer and find no quick fix, then my experience was not some punishment for sin. If they found God in the darkness, so could I. I realized that it was in the dark night of the soul that they found the presence of God. No wonder the writer of the Twenty-third Psalm finds God most personal ("Thou art with me") in the valley of grim shadows, not in green pastures.

I remembered a parable from the Muslims.

"What are you searching for, Mullah?"

"My key."

Both men got to their knees to search.

After a while the neighbor said, "Where did you lose it?"

"At home."

"Good Lord! Then why are you searching here?"

"Because it's brighter here."

I didn't find the key in the brightness of health but in the darkness of illness. I knew that whatever happened, whether I recovered or not, all was well. I began to experience a strange new Presence in my life. Faith had found a gentle beginning. Another word from the Psalms became the watchword of my convalescence. "I am confident of this; I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living" (Psalm 27:13 NIV, emphasis added).

I have learned that every sick person is blessed if she or he has one real caregiver. Family members called from a distance offering support, but they could not be there in the lonely night watches or moments of quiet desperation. My wife, Alice Ann, was there. She had nursed her first husband through horror-filled days and nights until he died from cancer. I knew it must have been doubly painful for her to have a second husband in such dire straits. Yet she was a nonanxious presence. There were times when I wondered how she kept her sanity. My endless impatience, catastrophic fears, and compulsive need to talk about my illness would have driven Mother Teresa to despair. But Alice Ann was always present, and her constancy was a major factor in my healing.

What I have learned from this experience is how to be a caring presence to others. Although I may have to descend into the abyss with others, I need not lose my own identity. To suffer with another person does not mean to drown oneself in the other's suffering; that would be as foolish as jumping into a pool to save a sinking swimmer only to drown oneself. I am there not to effect cure but to be friend in whatever way possible.

Recently, a friend of mine had prostate surgery that involved a malignancy. Radical surgery saved his life but left him with lingering problems and angry questions. I became his confidant as we struggled through his anguish about an unknown future. Before my own illness, I might have tried to soothe him with assurances that "everything is fine." I would have made the perfunctory call at the hospital and sent some inane get-well card. Now, I have entered into an ongoing relationship, helping him express anger and deal with his unknown future and offering my constant friendship.

Before my experience as a patient, the reality of his relentless questions might have put me off, his anger could have made me run for cover. He was angry at his surgeon for not preparing him for the aftermath of this surgery and for his reluctance to give any guidelines for the future, except to offer that timeworn phrase, "This will take time." He was angry at some of the X-ray technicians, whose inane banter and seeming indifference to his justifiable anxiety over these tests left him without emotional support. I had processed my own anger at the bungling of procedures and lack of constant care in my case, so now I could listen to Tom's anger with clarity and compassion. When one is a healed victim, he or she becomes a wounded healer for others.

Discussing his cancer was an obsession, and I could listen to him without feeling engulfed by my own cancerphobia. When he said, "We are given no guarantees of how long we have," I could be there for him and not let my own fears thwart his need to confront death. Having just been spared, I had become a member of the "order of Epaphroditus," of whom Paul wrote, "He was ill and almost died" (Philippians 3:27). Because I had stared my own finiteness in the face, I could hear his uncertainties without flinching. As our friendship continues to grow, it is deepened by the bond of our common experience with illness.

A further positive result of my illness grew out of journals I kept during eight weeks of convalescence. Although I received helpful medical advice for those days, I found a real gap in spiritual books intended for those recovering from illness. Other than the Psalms and the healing stories of the Gospels, I found little that "spoke to my condition." I began to write a book of meditations (which was later published). I found the only way to grace for those who enter the kingdom of the sick is through grim pastures.

Those days and nights when life came to the edge of the precipice will always be a part of me. I try not to overdramatize my experience, for many others have suffered far worse ordeals, ones that would have devastated me. I marvel in silence at their raw courage and genuine faith. But I have learned that even when some semblance of order returns after illness, we never forget the time when life got out of focus.

I know now that sometimes we have to experience how bad things can be before we find the real presence of God. Like Jonah, I have crawled out of the belly of despair to be given a second chance at life . . . by the grace of God.

Richard L. Morgan is a retired Presbyterian minister and a volunteer-chaplain at Caldwell Memorial Hospital, Lenoir, North Carolina.