A
couple days ago, I got home from having total hip replacement surgery. I was in the hospital for 3 ½ days, during
which time I was working toward a series of small steps that would effect my
release, a series that has some parameters, and has quite a bit of objective
data from others who have undergone this surgery. Once at home, I begin working toward a series
of steps that are larger, not as well defined, and which can vary widely from
person to person. The data that surgeons
and other healers have about this second phase is mostly self-reported by the
patient and thus subjective rather than objective.
I’ve
only been home a couple days, but it’s looking like this stage of my healing
could be much harder than the first one.
It’s
interesting, because here at home, I have much more control about where I can
go, what tools I have at my disposal, just how much physical space I can
operate in, and how many physical activities it is possible to do, and yet in
some ways, being in the hospital was easier.
There are many reasons, but it seems to me that at the core of them all
was the issue of control.
When
I went under anesthesia, I lost—or rather ceded—control of some key physical
functions, among them breathing, urinating and finally, consciousness. Agreeing to the surgery was essentially an
act of faith. I chose to trust people
and a process over which I had no control. I chose to put my body and my life
in others’ hands.
Even
after waking from surgery, in many ways my life was still in others’ hands. They decided when I could be moved from the
recovery room, when I could eat solid food, when the catheter would come out. I
had some control over that, in that there were certain steps I could pass. I could drink a clear liquid diet and report
no problems; I could report that I didn’t feel dizzy or nauseous. (That reporting required a trust on the part
of the staff—that I was telling the truth—but also they had a lot of machines
to gather my data).
In
fact, as the recovery in the hospital continued, I was asked to trust in a
different way: that my body, with help, could do certain things. Get up, walk to the hall, do physical therapy
exercises, go to the bathroom, practice climbing stairs. The more active I became, the more I was
asked to both trust my pain (stop an exercise when it became intolerable) and
trust that the pain would diminish as I got stronger. The staff kept asking me to trust them with
information: how I was feeling, if I could do more activity, if I could reduce
the pain medication. They also asked me
if I had passed gas, and showed disappointment when I answered no (tell me
another social situation where that happens!)
At
home, it’s a different level of trust. I have to trust my family to adapt their
lives and activities to my condition. And I have to trust my mind and spirit to
make choices that aren’t necessarily black and white. For example, how much should I push myself,
and bear the pain, trusting that becoming active will reduce the pain versus
how much I should take it easy, trusting that my body needs time to heal, and
will do so at its own pace.
Anyone
who has undergone major surgery will know that dilemma. Doctors and nurses aren’t really helpful on
this, because the best advice they will give you is “well, if it hurts too much
don’t do it”, which basically leads you back to your subjective evaluation of
what your body is telling you.
But
coming home after surgery also challenges me to trust the trust I put in my
family. The people I trust the most are
also the people I need to choose to trust the most.
The
nurses and physical therapists never did anything that would test my trust in
them. I was only in the hospital for 3 ½ days after all. But all of us in our
family have done things that have damaged and even broken the trust between us
for a time. There has been more practice
of forgiveness and reconciliation here, which has deepened the bonds of
trust. But even though I trust that I
can trust loved ones with whom I have shared pain, I have to make that choice
daily. In the hospital, I didn’t have
much of a choice whether to trust the staff: I depended on them. At home, as I gain a little more independence
physically, my dependence on my family is slowly diminished. But it takes time,
time in which I must depend on people who are not being paid to help me (like
in the hospital) but choosing to help me.
That dependence is a difficult spiritual discipline for me
I’ve
been through a couple of workshops this year that sought to help us uncover—or discover—what
is at the core of our being as leaders.
In both, my need to be in control surfaced strong and sure. I don’t like
not being in control. I want to know how
things are going to turn out, and I feel that I need to make sure that they do. Logically,
of course, that doesn’t make any sense. No one can control the outcome of what
we do. But there is this power in me
that demands that I keep my hands tightly on the reins, and shout directions to
everyone travelling with me. It is the
opposite of trust, and the only way I can diminish that power is allowing myself
to feel vulnerable and trust, even when I don’t feel it. It’s not telling myself that “everything is
going to be all right”, because not everything will be. It’s more encouraging myself to trust that I
will be all right, that those I love will be all right, that no matter what,
life is precious and good.
I
had a physical therapist in the hospital who epitomized the kind of coach or
teacher I admire and aspire to be. She
was in her last year of school at the University of Minnesota, and combined in
just the right proportions support and challenge. She pushed me to do new things, and helped me
to do them. She was not going to make me
get better, she was going to help me get better. Her two most common phrases were “how do you
feel?” and “do you want to try something else?”
No doubt, she had a written plan to guide her treatment of me, but it
was her trust in me as a patient—that I would tell her what I was feeling, and
that I would trust her as she guided me on—that made the healing relationship
work.
Maybe
we could apply that to other human relationships—at work, in our families, in
community. If we truly asked each other
how we felt—and listened to the honest answer—and truly asked each other if we ‘d
like to try something new, how much richer would our lives be?
I
wonder.
Be
beauty. Be justice. Be trust.
Patrick
