In 2012, I underwent a life changing surgery. After I was overdosed by my nurse I developed an excruciating condition called hyperacusis where even the most quiet of sounds were horribly painful. Hoping to fix the problem, my neurosurgeon went into the back of my head and examined my cranial nerves looking for any problems. To his, and everyone’s surprise, he found an artery thumping away on my acoustic cranial nerve that was the cause of the pain. Delicately he slipped a small teflon pillow between the two and instantly my horrible pain went away.
A few months after my surgery, for reasons we just don’t know, I had a stroke. I remember walking into my doctors office with a pounding headache. My previous surgical wound that hadn’t been healing extremely well had opened up from the pressure behind it and was bleeding. A different neurosurgeon – who was equally as kind as my first – explained something was really wrong and I needed to head back to the hospital straight to the ICU.
Disheartened, I went to the hospital where I was admitted and rushed to the MRI. They found the stroke and decided they needed to go back to surgery to make sure I didn’t have a chronic problem that was causing my more acute issues. Even though I had indeed bled into my cerebellum, no other issues were found. The doctors were able to sew my wound back up and I was able to recover in the hospital. I was soon home again.
Over the next few weeks my wound started to seep again. I was so discouraged. I needed our life to be normal. James’ bipolar disorder was just beginning to declare itself fully and after a year of my struggle to recover Faith was showing definite signs of stress. And yet, no matter how diligently I followed doctors orders, my wound continued to seep, leak and do everything you just don’t want it to do.
Finally, one evening it opened back up again. Horrified, Phillip took me to the ER where we met my third neurosurgeon. I was so discouraged and just wanted him to throw a few stitches in the back of my head. He, insisted that he really needed to take me back to surgery to look for a chronic CSF leak. As we talked, I asked if I could pray for him and he kindly allowed me to and shared he was also a Christian. After all I had been through, finding commonality in our faith was just what I needed to intrust myself to him.
I don’t remember a lot after that surgery. I’ve been told as I awakened I was violent, and acting incredibly out of character. This, to this day, horrifies me. Apparently, I was so out of it, I was even placed in restraints so I wouldn’t pull the stitches out of my head. Anyone who knows me know, understands how truly odd this type of behavior is for me under any circumstance. Days apparently passed – again I have no real memory of them. Just vague flashes of the doctor asking me loudly to do things when all I wanted to do was sleep.
One doctor of mine suggested that after an anoxic brain injury the year before, a stroke, and three back to back surgeries on my head my body just kind of run out of gas. That I was exhausted and needed time to recover. I think that is a really reasonable explanation.
Once home, I discovered my son James was utterly horrified by my head incision. He thought it looked like worms crawling out of my head and he started to have nightmares. I tried to cover it up and in doing so managed to really do a doozy on my incision. Embarrassed I returned to my surgeon and explained what happened. I expected his understanding. After all, he was my fellow Christian – the one who had Christ’s love working through him. But instead I was met with frustration and anger. “You did what?” “Why would you do that?” He shook his head looking down his nose at me oozing judgment and arrogance. I wanted to crawl in a hole. I felt bad enough for pulling some staples loose — He didn’t seem to care though. He seemed to enjoy heaping more and more embarrassment on like searing coals to my very weary heart.
For the next several weeks I felt physically awful and my wound looked awful too. It became infected and was a horrible mess. Instead of compassion though, my surgeon treated me like someone who was lesser than him. His anger towards me climaxed one afternoon as I winced as he stitched my incision back up without numbing it at all. I could almost feel his delight in hurting me tug after tug.
Finally, after many months my head wound had finally healed — but my heart was raw with new wounds from how this doctor had treated me. He had decided — with no evidence — that I was tampering with my wound. Why? Because he was too good of a surgeon to have a patient who would get an infection and have wound problems under his care. Sigh…How wrong he was.
During my whole experience with my surgeon another doctor who had eyes to see and ears to hear sent me to a geneticist in Denver. He wondered if there might be an underlying condition that caused healing issues that would explain all that had happened. As the geneticist looked at all of my surgical scars from many past surgeries, heard of my unexplained stroke, saw my hyper mobile joints and various other issues he easily diagnosed a connective tissue condition called Ehlers Danlos syndrome. As a told him how my neurosurgeon was cruel and accused me of not handling my incision right – he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You are 100% vindicated. Your surgeon knows a lot about brains but he sure doesn’t know anything about this”. I wept.
It’s been almost 5 years since my nurse overdosed me and the hardest thing to get over has been how this one neurosurgeon treated me. I’ve been able to forgive the nurse and pharmacist who caused my overdose. I’ve been able to embrace myself as I am today instead of yearning for who I one was. Yet, I still deeply struggle with this man however, who says he knows and loves the Lord Jesus, and yet demonstrated no tangible evidence of His love in how he dealt with me.
1 Corinthians 13:1-8 talks about what it looks like when we live life with or without love. In my weaker moments I’d love to burn this doctor at the stake for how he treated me, however if I’m honest, I’ve treated people without love too.
1Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. 2 And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3 And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned,[a] but have not love, it profits me nothing.
4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; 5 does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; 6 does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; 7 bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8 Love never fails.
Oh how deeply I regret those times I’ve treated people out of anger or frustration. My heart aches even more so now that I was so poorly treated and understand the lasting scars behavior like this inflicts. When we fail to love, we cause wounds that are deep and lasting. How I pray those who have been on the receiving end of me not loving you well will hear this. I am so deeply sorry for how I hurt you and how I failed you. I ask you to please forgive me.
The story of my neurosurgeon and me now stands as a living memorial of how I do not want to live. It shines a light brightly on my own heart and reminds me when I am tired, disappointed, frustrated or even angry that I have a choice of how I treat others. It reminds me daily that God’s commandment to love others as we love ourselves is truly one of our highest callings. It is my greatest hope, that as we Christians journey through life we will be known by our love and one person at a time, we will change the world.
Much love always,
Nancy
Epi-Centered 