The Waiting Game

Imagine the still of a winter's morn, the quiet slumber of a weary family, suddenly and swiftly brought to a stunning end with, "GOOD MORNING! CHEST X-RAY!" "Here's your breakfast!" "Bone scan? I haven't heard anything about a bone scan." This is the way we were roused from our sleep this morning. We are learning very quickly that life in the hospital is full of surprises, painful waiting, and the miscommunications common to man.

We awoke yesterday to the promise of an MRI and a bone scan, the last two pieces of the puzzle that would help the doctors stage Andrew's cancer. The MRI would begin at noon and the bone scan after that... or at least that is what we were told the night of the biopsy. We soon learned yesterday that, because of a protocol error (I have no idea what that means either) the bone scan wouldn't happen that day. A little disappointing, but not a big deal, at least we'd have our MRI done midday and maybe get some answers by the afternoon.

Noon came and went with no MRI. Apparently we were on radiology's schedule for 2pm. I guess it wasn't a biggie... but things were starting to add up. We took our little boy, still slightly doped up from pain meds from the biopsy down to the MRI room a little before 2. Once we got there we found out that the patient that was in the MRI room was, surprise surprise, taking a little longer than expected. They finally sedated him at 3. "This should probably take 2 to 2 1/2 hours," they said as we left.At 6:15 we thought it would be a good idea to check to see what was going on with Andrew since we hadn't heard anything. He came through fine but the results would have to wait since it was already so late. Then came this morning.

Apparently we won't be having a bone scan today... no explanation yet, we're still waiting to hear from the oncologist in regards to that and the MRI results. It looks like our New Years Eve will be rather uneventful, but who knows. We have learned that in this alternate universe we call Hospitalopia that schedules don't mean a whole lot, you take things when you can get it, and you generally don't try and plan your day.

For me personally I am finding that my frustrations are mounting. I guess I can understand that today is New Years Eve and thus business as usual won't be possible here and yet I can't. I know intellectually that my son's cancer isn't aggressive which means that being a day late... or 10... on his bone scan probably won't make much difference. At the same time I feel like I am wrestling with his amorphous entity, a shadow that we still haven't identified and because of that it is even more terrifying. Personally if  we couldn't get his dental x-rays scheduled I wouldn't much care. What we are dealing with though is my son's life, the staging of his cancer, the plan of treatment. I find myself growing angry at the fact that we can't get answers because people have to get ready for their year end celebration and so there aren't as many people working. I find myself getting more and more frustrated that the lives of others goes on while ours is grinding to a halt. It makes me want to find myself in the middle of the peds unit screaming at the top of my lungs, "DOESN'T ANYONE REALIZE DEATH IS GROWING IN MY SON!"

I think though, at the end of the day, what really angers me is not protocol errors or overworked nurses, delayed scans or even the constant waiting. What angers me this morning is my own helplessness, my own creatureliness, my own finitude. My very genetic make-up is designed to be a person that moves out into the chaos of the world to bring order. Chaos is raging in this room, in my heart, and in the chest of my son and there is nothing that I, personally, can do about it. Perhaps I am learning a bit of the mind of Abraham who, when ten years had passed since the promise of a son was given with no sign of a child, he took matters into his own hands and had one by his wife's maidservant. Ten years of waiting and wondering. I wonder if we look down on good old Abe because we miss that phrase of him living in Canaan 10 years when his patience ran out. We think, "tsk tsk, he should have trusted in the Lord." Easier said than done.

Today we wait... all the tests for the day are already done. Today I have to rest in the arms of a greater Father, one who doesn't have my limitations, my lack of power, my ignorance. Easier said than done I think. Thankfully God doesn't ask us for perfect patience... Abe's story bears that out. The Gospel for us is that Jesus is faithful to us in our struggles of faith, in our impatience, in our seemingly powerless tears. In addition to praying for our son, please pray that we can live with hope and faith in the midst of this period of waiting.