Monday, September 17, 2012

Saints in Scrubs

Thursday was an awful day. I probably cried 1 gallon of tears. I was terrified, and I just couldn't hold it together, which made me stress, which made me make a lot of little mistakes that seemed like the end of the world, which God decided to use to show his ever present mercy.

By the time we left for the geneticist appointment I had cried many times. Sobbed, in fact, at the prospect of facing this unknown. To say I was anxious wouldn't even begin to describe the complete breakdown I was having. Paul, Mae and I hopped in the car just as it started to drizzle. We arrived at the building downtown after I had gotten turned around by my GPS -Thanks Technology!- I pulled into the garage only to read a sign that said to move forward, DO NOT REVERSE!, which threw me and made me think I was pulling into the employee lot. I rang the buzzer and told the voice on the other end that I had made a mistake, and the voice instructed me to stop inside and get a ticket.

Oh, is that all?

I pulled into an emergency lane, freaking out about the time. I saw a guard station at the exit gate. I hesitated. I couldn't decided what to do. The clock ticked forward another minute. I grabbed Paul and then Mae. I stopped a stranger to ask where I should get my ticket. She pointed me in no less than three different directions. The clock ticked forward. My eyes filled with tears, and I said, "Okay, thanks!" in the most forced cheerful voice I could manage, which probably sounded like I was screaming at her. I turned to get back into my car.

"Do you need help?"

I spun around. A man in green scrubs with a surgical cap on marched toward me. "Can I help? Is your appointment in there?"


"Is it with cardiology?"

"No, we're here for the geneticist. I think I pulled into the wrong place. I'm turned around." I just couldn't stop my eyes from welling up. He was going to help!

"Which floor?"

"Um, 19."

"Hold on." He ran to the guard station at the gate, gestured toward me and came jogging back. "Here's your ticket. You can park in here. Looks like you pulled too far forward since it is one-way." A car pulled out of it's spot about 30 feet behind my car. "Oh, hang on!" He ran back and stopped traffic and waved me back. I reversed and parked. By the time I hopped out of my car, he was gone.

The whole experience just about broke me. I sobbed the rest of the way to Dr. P's office. I had settled a bit by then because Paul was so excited to ride in the elevator with so many buttons. We had our appointment, and then were sent to the hospital across the street for the blood draw.

I will spare you the drama that followed getting to the hospital, and then to extended care for the girls before it closed at 6. I will only say this: That doctor in his green scrubs was Christ. I mean no hyperbole or blasphemy. That doctor was animated by compassion for this weepy mess of a woman with two small children at his work place. He did very little, but more than any other person of the hundreds around me were willing to do. It took all of three minutes, and he absolutely saved me. It was clear he was in a hurry, he skedaddled immediately. Three minutes of his time gave me the strength to face the rest of that trying day, to not snap at my bouncy, clueless three-year-old, to remember that God cares about my rough day enough to show me in a clear and concise way that He is always present, caring and active. I pray that I can do that for someone else just once, even if I never know it.


Friday was better, though I was jumpy. The results would come today. Before I left to get Paul, I called the office to leave my message that I was waiting for Mariana's results. I picked Paul up from school and drove to pick Scott up for lunch. We sat down to eat a yummy lunch when the phone rang. It was the doctor's office. 

Dr. P told me that if the nurse called all was well. If Mariana's numbers were less than perfect, he would call. "Just remember, it may be that she had an off day and we'll just want to re-test next month to make sure it's not a downward trend. She's a person, not a machine. Numbers fluctuate."

I handed Scott the phone. "Hello? Yes, I'm her husband, Mariana's father. Yes, we've been waiting to hear back. Yes, she's right here with me. Well, I would love to hear the results too...Great, thanks! You too. Bye." Apparently the nurse expected Scott to hand me the phone because I am the mother? I don't know, but it tickled us.

We had our moment of relief. The tension released and we were suddenly unbound. Paul and Mariana continued bouncing around as though time hadn't just stood still.  "Thank you for letting me answer the phone, that was kind." 

Well...."Well, it wasn't all that generous. I, um, well, I didn't want to have to tell you bad news..." 

We laughed, a little too hard. We enjoyed lunch, I took Scott back to his office and off I went to pick up the girls. No more blood tests for six months. We've been told it gets easier, and I look forward to it.

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous2:37 PM EDT

    Beautifully expressed Barbara:) Our lesson for little flowers is on 'mercy" today. I'll remember your story as we learn about the mercifulness of our Father. Hang in there! You are awesome!!!