I hurried, as quickly as possible, careful to remain just below the need to stop and catch my breath. The ride in the elevator seemed longer than ever and I rounded the corner for the semi-sprint to the end of the never-ending hallway to my doctor’s office. I-45 congested with traffic, to Hardy Tollway choked with traffic, to 610 Loop stacked with traffic, to Hwy 59 strangled with traffic, to the Hwy 288 parking lot had sapped our lead time, as well as, our regular drive time making me a not-so-fashionable 40 minutes late to my echo appointment.
The patient scheduled behind me had been taken in my place and I was welcomed to change into a gown and wait to be “worked in”. Trying to remain positive, I reasoned that it would not have been fair to hold my appointment, thereby putting the whole schedule off by forty minutes. But the longer I sat, and the more people they took in front of me, the more I entertained not- so-happy thoughts. Like the fact that I had been doing this for thirteen years, hundreds of appointments and not one time had I been late. And further thoughts of those hundreds of appointments and how many extra hours I sat, sometimes as many as two at a time, waiting on doctors that were behind in their schedule or for tests that were late for the same reason.
Watching the clock nudge closer and closer to my next appointment, I finally gave up and asked to be placed on the schedule for the afternoon. Changing back into my clothes, I huffed down the hallway to the next waiting room. Sitting down, I pulled out the needle and thread that was in my purse and began to work out my frustrations. The sound of others around me stirred me from my self-induced pity party.
Raising my head, I began to take in the room and its occupants near me. It was not until I withdrew my focus from my own thoughts and feelings that I noticed the three young women in my midst. Carefully looking at each one, I began to recognize emotions that their faces belied. With sudden clarity, I was taken back thirteen years to a time when I sat in their places. It was a somber fear and unbelieving shock that moved behind their eyes. Thirteen years later, I was pierced suddenly, through and through, that these young women who sat next to worried looking husbands, were very different from me. Though I had shared their emotions, the noticeable difference was the progression that the disease had taken in their bodies.
I sat with a needle and thread in my hand, angry because I had been made to wait. Each of them sat tethered to a pump by tubing and a catheter, placed inside their jugular veins, that delivered life sustaining medication. I sat with my sneakers in my bag, wondering if I could beat my record in the exercise test that I was to take, while each of them sat with oxygen tanks in the bags at their feet. I watched as they were called back, and with tired glances moved slowly through the door, carefully carrying the equipment that allowed them to do the things that I had taken for granted. Finally, my name was called and I moved guiltily unencumbered.
My doctor is one of the foremost leading authorities and researchers on Pulmonary Hypertension. She gave up her position as the Director of Pulmonary/Lung Transplant Program at Methodist Hospital to focus on research for treatment and a cure. It is because she only sees patients once a week that I was able to see the others that share my condition. She was happy to see me, after a year, and was pleased with my exam, giving God the credit. She confirmed my earlier evaluation of her other patients by telling me that it was good to see how well I was doing because she had not seen much good that day. Pending any unexpected test results, she released me for another year and stopped the blood work that has been done monthly for all these years.
After two more tests, we started back home. The ride gave me the opportunity to contrast the despair that I saw in the other patient’s eyes with the hopeful outlook that I had been given. I was immediately ashamed by my earlier attitude, humbled by my own arrogance. I was broken for the young women that I saw, guilt-ridden that God would choose to allow me to thrive and not them. Once again, I was reminded of the mercy in which God has bathed me. Grace, that for reasons unknown He has given. I do not understand it. I do not deserve it. Setting all pretenses aside, I can honestly proclaim that my only worth is what God has done in me.
