Stepping Out of Hurt (Part 2)

I walked out the front door and into a misty rain that wet the ground and steamed in pools of moisture off the hot pavement. It smelled like sadness. The morning was grave and unsettling; Dad drove us to TriStar medical in the hopes that a man with a PhD could have some answers.

"I hate being stuck in this in between," I thought to myself as I stared blankly at the passing signs. “La Tienda” and “Super Mercado” painted in bright oranges and yellows zoomed past in whirls of colors. This part of Nashville is primarily Latino.

We drove in silence. That’s often the case with Dad and I. He’s more or less a quiet man, never great with expressing feelings but phenomenal in quieting my fears and settling my worries with a hushed confidence and care. We pulled into the medical plaza and my stomach turned. There it was again— my old friend, returning to stir up doubts and unleash chaos on a loose reign. If fear is a volcano threatening to explode, than anxiety is a tangled mass of vines with seemingly no root. One thought leads to another which then binds itself upon another, and before you know it your mind is suffocating behind strangling strands of 'what if.'

We walked inside to white-washed walls, hushed tones, and suffering lurking in the corners. I stared down at my feet and watched as every passing tile beneath my shoes read a different 'what if.'

The waiting room opened before my eyes. I always wondered why the rest of the world progressed in style with modern accommodations while medical waiting rooms remain stagnant in a Full House 90s rendition of cheap living room furniture and mismatched wall decor.

I bit my lip. It all felt too familiar. I know the drill: come in with high hopes, leave with another bandage around my left forearm and too many unanswered questions.

“Please Lord,” I whispered to myself, “Give me something today.”

I struggled to suck in air, awaiting my time with the doctor. When the nurse called my name, Dad gave a strong nod and smiled. It’s probably about time I talk to a doctor on my own now, seeing as those I’ve seen approximately five different ones this year (that, and I’m a twenty-year-old).

The doctor was kind and asked lots of questions. I could tell from the way he leaned forward in his chair and stared with an inquisitive intensity that he was just as ready to find answers as I was. The tangly ‘what if’ loosened its grip around my lungs. I took a deep breath.

He rattled things off about my liver, vitamin D levels, and something about Celiac disease.

“There’s a potential you’ll need an endoscopy if all of these tests come back negative.”

He stared down at the chart before him, “but I’m not worried about that just yet.”

I thanked him and right before he slipped behind the door, I blurted— "do you know how long the test results will take?”

He smiled, “about a week. I’ll call you as soon as they come in.”

I wrung my hands together in front of me and waited as the nurse came in and prepped me for blood tests.

“Ain’t nothing but a thing, Missy. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s not a big deal.”

She flicked her needle and pierced my skin. “You just have to wait it out and hope for the best.”

I rolled my eyes. Easy for her to say. If only she knew what kind of waiting I had endured this year. Waiting for test results, waiting for doctors appointments, waiting as I tried to find a suitable psychiatrist in Birmingham, waiting for the day when I wouldn’t make myself throw up anymore, waiting to hear from God.

And here I am again, waiting. It’s only a week, and for some that’s nothing. I guess for people who have no hope in Jesus, waiting is just a game of luck; life is a game of cards, and you just hope for a good draw. I don’t have faith in luck, though. If I did, I probably would have taken up alcohol as a hobby. No, I believe that Jesus died. He died for what is imperfect, for what is broken. He died for a sinful people like me whose faith is often weak and whose body is not what it is meant to be. He died and rose again and someday I’ll spend eternity with Him on a new heaven and earth where my stomach will work and I don’t have to “hope for the best.”

I waited a minute before returning to the waiting room and my patient father. The rain beat down in rhythmic streams now, flooding the street and easing my mind. Here I am today in yet another season of in between. Life keeps throwing wrenches in my plans, let me tell you.

Later that day I sat between my parents at our dinner table which overlooks the window, allowing for a scenic view of the backyard. Ripe red tomatoes and lengthy cucumbers sprouted from vines in the mini garden that mom and dad have been carefully nurturing all summer long. The two of them discuss the day’s adventures, mom spouting wild stories of the crazy special needs students she works with at our middle school down the street. Dad reflected on the day’s work in the garden, proudly boasting of his weeding skills.

“I’m afraid,” I blurt out. The pair stare at me with wide eyes. The ‘what if' had been slowly creeping its way into the back of my throat since the doctors appointment earlier that day, and it had finally made its way out in an awkward moment of desperation.

“I’m trying to be brave,” I mumble through tears now sliding down my cheeks, “But I’m scared of what all this could potentially mean for me.”

Mom and Dad are never afraid of my tears, and for this I am ever grateful. They merely grabbed my hands, one on each side of me, and began to talk to the Lord.

Mom knows the bible better than anyone. As she prayed, she recalled the story of Hagar and her fear and distress after being exiled by Abraham into the desert.

As she spoke, I envisioned the servant woman, her veil shielding her from sandy winds, weeping and cursing God as her scraped feet searched for familiarity. This past year of my life has been a lot of weeping and cursing. My soul has stumbled into the desert again and again, wondering why exactly God has led me here.

“It’s here in the desert where God comes to Hagar and comforts her. We ask that you do the same Father. Please embrace our Carly in Your arms. Comfort her and give her peace.”

Her words echoed in my heart. My parents continued to pray over me for the next ten minutes. I blinked back tears and watched a humming bird zoom by. A butterfly landed gingerly on the pepper vine. In the distance, two birds chirped excitedly to one another. The world continued beyond my kitchen window, and inside I was covered in faithful words by two prayer warriors ready to fight by my side.