If you have spent more than ten minutes with me in the last five or ten years, then you’ve probably noticed the awkward way I “turn” my head, which is really a full-body move. Or you’ve heard me complain about my chronic neck pain (sorry). It has something that has been a pain in my neck for years. (I know — that was a stupid joke, even for me.)
Today, I had to have another MRI to see how the arthritis that is causing the pain has progressed. For me to go to the doctor and agree to submit to an MRI, the pain must be close to unbearable. About the only thing I find worse than chronic, throbbing neck pain is being shoved head first into a tube. I’m extremely claustrophobic — tight spaces, underwater caves, elevators, crowds, tanning beds, being buried alive, & department store fitting rooms are the stuff of my nightmares. (OK, fitting rooms for many reasons besides claustrophobia — like jeans, swimsuits, or shopping with a teenage girl.)
Growing more and more anxious as the big event approached, I called on my prayer warriors, friends, family, the cashier at Dollar General, and a couple of televangelists to cover me in prayer. I prayed in the shower this morning, I prayed as I drove to work (eyes open, of course), I prayed on the way to the appointment.
Please, God, don’t let me hyperventilate and have a full-blown panic attack.
I made it to the appointment, got checked in, and took a seat in the waiting room. I opened the book I had taken to read and tried not to think about the purpose of my visit. A few minutes later, a middle-aged, extremely frail-looking woman came in and walked to the desk. As she gave her name, I couldn’t help but notice that her breathing was terribly labored and it was all she could do to speak. The receptionist asked her if she had an appointment, and with obvious pain and distress, the woman explained that she had just come from her doctor, who had ordered a chest X-ray. After some investigation, the receptionist explained to her that the doctor had sent an order but that she didn’t have an appointment.
The poor women slumped, visibly defeated. Her countenance suggested this was quite possibly the last straw for her — more than she could handle. The receptionist (very kindly) told her that she would try to work her in if they had a technician who could do the procedure and asked her to have a seat. The receptionist certainly hadn’t conveyed much hope and I’m sure that one scan of the very crowded waiting room didn’t do anything to encourage the poor lady.
She collapsed into the chair nearest the reception desk (probably as far as she could walk), put her head in her hands and started sobbing, silently. I tried not to notice, but that was impossible. I wondered to myself if I should offer her a tissue, a cough drop, anything to help her. I would have gladly sacrificed my own appointment if it would have helped, but I was having a different procedure — not sure that would have solved anything except getting me out of facing my own fears.
But the Holy Spirit told me I needed to go talk to her.
Me: Holy Spirit, shhhh, I don’t want to talk to her.
Holy Spirit: Really. I mean it. Go over and talk to that woman.
Me: But she and everyone else in here will think I’m weird.
Holy Spirit: After you checked in, you spent a full minute sanitizing your hands and the waiting room chair before you sat down. They already think you’re weird.
Me: But I want to read my book.
Holy Spirit: Close it and TALK TO HER.
Me: But it’s a really good book, about being the hands and feet of Jesus.
*silence*
Me: Fine. I’ll talk to her. But I’ll probably just be bothering her.
I closed my book and walked over, taking the seat next to her, thinking it better to skip the sanitation ritual just this once. I don’t think she even noticed as her head was still buried in her hands.
I spoke softly, placing my hand ever so gently on her shoulder so as not to startle her, “Are you OK?”
She lifted her head, and started to answer, but a shake of her head was all she could manage. I handed her a tissue and she took as deep a breath as she could. She said, “It makes my head hurt so bad when I cry.”
I replied to her with a smile, “Then you should probably stop that, shouldn’t you?”
She smiled, and said, with much effort, “I just feel so terrible.”
I tried to reassure her, “I couldn’t help but overhearing that they are trying to work you in. It is clear to anyone that you are very sick. I could hear in that receptionist’s voice that she sincerely wants to help you. I am sure it will work out.”
By this point, she had calmed down just enough that she could speak a little more easily and she replied, “I hope so. I’ve been sick for four days now and I can hardly breathe. I just want to figure out what’s wrong so I can feel better.”
We talked for a little bit and she explained that they are scheduled to fly to Florida tomorrow morning for their family Thanksgiving and Christmas celebration and she is afraid she will not be well enough to fly. She said she also worried about making others in her family ill, especially her mother and mother-in-law, both in their eighties.
I asked her if I could pray for her.
She replied, “I guess that couldn’t hurt!,” and smiled again.
That pesky Holy Spirit then prompted me to put my hand on hers.
Me: But she is clearly a carrier of the plague. If I touch her, I will surely die.
Holy Spirit: TOUCH HER HAND.
Me: Fine.
I touched her hand and her countenance softened further. I asked her name and I prayed for her — that they would get her in, that she would feel better soon, and that she would be able to get on that plane tomorrow, safe travel, etc…
As I said, “Amen,” they called my name to come back for my procedure. I told her I would continue to pray for her and she thanked me very sincerely.
As I changed for my procedure, and even as I entered the teeny, tiny, oxygen-depleted tube of death, the only thing I could think about was the woman in the waiting room. I continued to pray for her throughout my procedure and I was surprised when, it seemed, in no time, I was emerging from the torture chamber, procedure finished!
Isn’t it amazing what focusing on another person can do to take one’s mind of her own predicament? I didn’t hyperventilate. I didn’t have a panic attack. I prayed for the woman in the waiting room. Sometimes, God calls us to a ministry not because of what we will give, but because of what we will get. Because He knows what we need.
And just like that, I was coming out of the tube. It was over. I changed quickly and when I exited back to the waiting room, she wasn’t there. As I said goodbye to the receptionist, she said, “__________ wanted me to tell you that we got her in and that you are an angel.”
I smiled and answered her, “If you get the chance, please tell her so is she.”