This, too, could be a grace.

Last month I underwent a surgery to remove some ovarian cysts. Being who I am, I experienced a fair amount of anxiety beforehand--nervousness about the procedure itself, about my recovery and how myself and my family would cope, and whether or not the surgery would actually fix the problem of the pain I'd been having every month.

The morning of the surgery, I was in fairly good head space--for me, anyway--and I was at peace about the procedure. I no longer worried I was going to die on the table. I believed the surgery necessary, and I felt confident in my doctor's abilities as a veteran in his field.

I was comfortable in the bed in the pre-op cubicle, with the heated socks and blankets, behind a curtain, Seth holding my hand. They put in my IV and started administering fluids, and then gave me three separate drugs to combat the likely nausea that would occur after I woke up. The nurse told me in detail what was going to happen that morning-- that after the anesthesiologist came, they would give me a drug called, "Versed." This is known as the "Twilight Drug," and has an amnesia effect. She said that I would not remember saying goodbye to my husband or going into the operating room or talking with the doctors beforehand. She said that they give it to people all the time to help with anxiety as they're being wheeled into surgery.

The anesthesiologist came. And so did three of her assistants. And all four of them separately asked me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue so they could check for loose objects in my mouth. The last one was still with me when an OR nurse came and told me they were ready for me a bit early. My pre-op nurse was nowhere near, and I felt a slight panicky feeling-- No one had given me Versed yet! I was going to remember, specifically, the events that they try to erase from your mind. Surely there's a reason they give this drug to surgery patients.

But almost at that same instant of fear, I felt some words enter into my thoughts: "This, too, could be a grace." I considered that for a second, and I decided it was true. It was possible. I didn't really feel afraid. I felt hyper-aware. Like my senses were in over-drive. I was reminded of the words of Mary Oliver that used to be on a painting that hung right outside my bedroom door:

Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it. 

As the nurse unlocked the wheels of my hospital bed and Seth squeezed my hand and walked down the hallway, I decided I would do that. I would pay attention. I would consider the fact that this, too, could be a grace.

Part of me felt a little sneaky. Like I had found a loop hole. Like I was the one person in the world who would remember being wheeled into an operating room. They took me out into the hall and through double doors. They pushed the bed a little fast to try to make it through the next set of automatically closing doors, but we weren't quick enough and the bed bumped into the door frame. I remember thinking that perhaps they would be more careful if they knew I was fully conscious.

When the double doors opened, I saw the local ENT doctor, wearing scrubs, exiting surgery. We made eye contact and he gave me a tight lipped smile. He is a cursory acquaintance-- has seen my boys a half dozen times over the years for ear infections and recurring strep throat. I imagined him putting tubes in the ears of the child who had been in the bed beside mine at pre-op, the one crying for his parents not to leave. I said a quick prayer for them both.

We made it into the operating room, and I was surprised by how big the room was and how many people were in it. It was freezing. "So many people!" I remarked to my doctor. "And we're all here for you," he replied. "It's very cold," I told the nurse. "One minute," she said. "We will get you heated blankets." My teeth started chattering. Probably only half from the cold. The other half was probably nerves. They helped me move from the hospital bed to the operating table. It was interesting.The table was so narrow. I didn't realize that my arms would be spread wide, like a lower-case "t." Like I was on a cross.

They put several warm blankets on me, adjusted my hair into its cap. One of the anesthesiologist's assistants bent over me. I remember her pearl stud earrings. She had glasses and a floral print cap. Her name was Kristen, like me. "We are going to put the sleepy medicine into your IV now, but first I want to make sure you are getting oxygen." She put a mask over my mouth and told me to breathe in. I did. "Good!" she said.

And that is all I remember.



I recently finished a book called, Time and Despondency, by Nicole M. Roccas. In it she talks about how one is able to meet God only in the present. But as humans, our brains so easily fall into either fixating on the past or daydreaming about the future. In the present, she says, our brains don't usually engage fully because the present is a nebulous space as far as how it is classified--is it good or bad, happy or sad? We tend to focus on memories or fantasies that we can measure. And this is how the brain works--primarily as something that measures or catalogs things and assigns them labels.



Roccas offers readers quite a lot of practical suggestions for how to fully live into the present. She gives specific examples of how we can practice gratitude, foster prayer, and utilize physical acts to help train our minds to grow out of despondency and into the present. Reading her ideas made me realize that is exactly what happened during that moment before my surgery. When I had the thought, "This, too, could be a grace," my mind instantly wanted to fill in the this. What could be a grace? The sight of Seth's reassuring smile? The doctor emerging from surgery in the hallway? The pearl earrings of the woman who would be monitoring my breathing?

That phrase has caught my attention. A few times, it has popped into my head seemingly of its own volition. But also, I have started saying it at times when I'm having trouble seeing the good in things.

Like when I wasn't recovering as quickly as I thought I should. I considered the possibility of grace in that moment being that I was afforded time without expectation. That I could return to my bed and read, and I could depend on those around me to keep the wheels of life turning.

I didn't always believe it. Like the one night I sat up too fast or too far and I felt a sickening pain in my abdomen. The next day I was nauseated and weak and, although I said it was a grace, I wasn't sure how it could be. I finally came to accept that reminders of our own frailty can always be seen as grace. As evidence of God's mercy. It proves its opposite, so to speak. That my usual fullness of life is a gift, totally, and not of my own doing.

I don't want to get bogged down in the labeling. In playing out my current scenario down future hypotheticals until I can find something that I can see and determine and label as "grace," or as "good." That defeats the purpose of the exercise. Calling our souls into the present moment means to expect to find Christ in it. I guess that is where faith comes in. To trust that God's grace is present to me in every moment, that Jesus always meets me wherever I am. Though there be pain or loneliness or fear or uncertainty. Here, too, can be his grace.