The doors of the hospital whooshed open and I nodded at Pedro’s intern who headed out as I headed in. She smiled and stopped to chat. “That was quite the experience last night, wasn’t it?”
I nodded numbly. Pedro had started convulsing just hours after receiving his first chemotherapy treatment at the new hospital, and it seemed as if the entire staff on 11 Long had rushed into his room.
“The attending physician thinks he had the seizure because of the lymphoma cells started dying off so quickly.” She grinned. “That means the chemo worked!”
Again, I nodded numbly, and offered a feeble, “I hope that never happens again!”
The intern nodded her head and bounced out the door into the fresh air while I inhaled deeply and wished I hadn’t. Hospitals smelled of fear. I hadn’t slept much that night—they had moved Pedro to an acute care unit, and had allowed me to spend the night in his room.
I had spent the entire night franticly recording everything Pedro said in an attempt to unlock clues to his condition. The seizures continued throughout the night, and he babbled senselessly between dropping off to sleep and waking up with a new seizure.
The lack of sleep and stress of the new city, new hospital, new doctors and no place to rest pressed down on me. I felt too tired to even cry. As I turned the corner to head to the elevator, I saw a small plaque on the wall that indicated that the hospital had a chapel.
I followed the signs to a small empty room with dim lights. I spotted a chair towards the back of the room and fidgeted myself into a comfortable position with my feet tucked up under me and my head resting on my arms which were perched on the back of the chair.
Waves of exhaustion rolled over me, chased by sharks of worry. I didn’t know where I’d stay that night. I didn’t know if Pedro had lost his mind. I hadn’t spoken with the girls since I left. I didn’t know whether to sleep or to cry. I mumbled half-formed prayers.
A thought popped into my head in the middle of my distress. “You’re never to big to crawl into your Father’s lap.”
I relaxed into the chair even further. It might not be my Father’s lap, but it was in his little house. I rested. When I stood up, I no longer felt as desperate and oppressed as I had before.
Dear Caregiver, God offers his lap to you as well. Crawl into it. Rest your weary head and still your racing mind. You have a Comforter. He longs to rock you gently and pat your back tenderly as you spill out your sorrows in His loving embrace. (click to tweet)
Have you ever felt faint and unable to carry on?
