Lessons from the Bench

These last several months have been marked by problems in my calf muscle - firstly, noticeable as swelling, pressure and pain after running; a variety of tests, waiting, physical therapy, rest, using crutches; and then the meat thermometer test (really a pressure test...but given the season of an approaching American Thanksgiving, the image of stabbing your roasting turkey with a probe seemed appropriate) to confirm what I already suspected: a rare condition seen most often in younger athletes, runners especially, called chronic exertional compartment syndrome.

It's now eight weeks since the fasciotomy, or compartment release surgery, involving the surgeon cutting 4 inch incisions either side of my calf muscle, and once under the skin, cutting long slits in the casing of two of the four compartments in my calf muscle. Think of slitting the skin of sausages before popping them in the oven, so they don't explode when they cook. I've just come from a follow-up appointment with the surgeon, who is very happy with my progress. Walking well, nearly pain free, not yet ready to start running.

But for six months, I've been on the bench. Unable to run. Unable to bike. At times unable to walk very far, or stand for very long. Unable to lead the mission trip to Haiti last October, though I was able to go with our family over Christmas. On the bench.

And I've learned a few valuable lessons in the process.

1. The body is an incredible thing. Complex. Connected. Interdependent. When one part is not working as it should be, the body compensates. Other things get pulled out of line, messed up. Calf muscle issues become knee, leg, hip, back issues. Trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in after surgery was almost impossible, despite the vast array of pillows we arranged in our bed, providing protection, padding and support. When one part can't do its job, it impacts the whole. I can't help but think of the body of Christ, the locally-experienced, global-reaching church. Hurting in places, not doing its job in places. Impacting the whole body.

2. Healing is a marvel to watch and experience. Nearly every day since the surgery...to a lesser degree now...I have taken photos of my leg, the incisions, the bruises, the swelling. I've resisted from sharing any on Facebook, but I'll share some with you if you've brave enough to make it to the end of this post.

3. I've learned that I'm a female athlete (my doctor's words, not mine). Not a term I've ever associated with myself, nor do I have any crazy ideas about winning the London marathon. But running in particular is something that's become important to me.

4. That I have a "history of tropical diseases" (a different doctor's words). Back in West Africa, I figured there may be long-term consequences that could at some point down the road be linked back to malaria, dengue fever that I've had (malaria probably from a mosquito in Sierra Leone, got sick with it a couple of weeks later and was nursed while trying to visit a health project in Tera, Niger; dengue fever from mosquito in Haiti). But this was the first time I'd heard about malaria affecting collagen in muscles. (Not sure that this had any effect on my calf muscle, but it was part of the discussions in getting a diagnosis).

5. That my children are perfectly capable of taking care of our family's laundry (though they still resist putting clean clothes back in the closet). They were also ready for more independence in other areas, and me out of action gave them the opportunity to step up.

6. That you really should pay attention to the warnings on post-surgery instructions that pain meds can cause constipation. Seriously, pay attention to those warnings. When all you can think about is the pain, it's hard to be concerned with side effects of painkillers. But that was real suffering for me. My poor body thought I was giving birth...and I was sure I was going to do some serious damage to my insides. Agony.

7. That people don't always know how to help, though they want to. It's good to be specific when asking for help, and when offering help to others. Saying "I'd like to bring you dinner on Friday, does chicken soup sound OK?" is more helpful than saying "Let me know how I can help".

8. That I missed people coming over to visit, calling to check on me, getting in touch. Though we may be connected with many people, especially via social media, it doesn't compare with direct contact.

9. That pain can be all-consuming. I'd often thought the same about hunger for many around the world, who on a daily basis are motivated, obsessed, only and exclusively with finding food and water. It was the first time I really experienced pain in this way. And I know it's nothing compared to those who live with constant pain.

10. It's okay to be on the bench for a while. God still loves me when I'm on the bench and not busy doing. After a few weeks on crutches, and still trying to get a diagnosis, I had to back out of leading a mission trip to Haiti that the girls and I were taking with our church. Days before we were due to leave, aware of my limitations and possible risks if I went to Haiti then, Storly and I prayed about whether I should go, and agreed that we needed to make a decision the next morning. (Uncharacteristically, I had already thought about canceling this trip for two different, unrelated reasons). I woke up earlier than usual, just after 5 a.m. that decision day, already feeling like I should not go, but asking God to confirm that this was what He wanted for me, not me just getting scared. 

As I made a steaming pot of coffee, the Bible App on my phone reminded me of the devotional reading for that day, from Streams in the Desert. So I sat down and read:

He withdrew about a stone’s throw beyond them, knelt down and prayed, Luke 22:41 NIV

"It is a very difficult thing to be kept in the background during a time of crisis. In the Garden of Gethsemane, eight of the eleven remaining disciples were left behind to do nothing. When Jesus went ahead to pray, Peter, James and John went with him to watch, but the rest sat down to wait … They were in the garden, but that was all … It was a stormy time of crisis and great stress, yet they were not allowed to participate.

You and I have certainly had that experience and felt the same disappointment. Perhaps you have seen a great opportunity for Christian service arise, and some people are sent immediately to the work, while still others are being trained to go. Yet you are forced to do nothing but sit and wait … Whatever your situation, you have been kept from service, and … do not understand why you should be excluded from this part of the Christian life. It seems unjust that you have been allowed to enter the garden but have found no path assigned to you once inside.

Be still, dear soul—things are not what they seem! You are not excluded from any part of the Christian life. Do you believe that the garden of the Lord only has places for those who walk or those who stand? No! It also has a place set apart for those who are compelled to sit … There are active people, who go straight to the battle and struggle till the setting of the sun. There are passive people, who stand in the middle and simply report the progress of the fight. Yet there are also [others]—those who can neither fight nor be spectators of the fight but must simply lie down and wait. When this experience comes, do not think that you have been turned aside. Remember, it is Christ himself who says to you, “Sit here” (Matthew 26:36). Your place in the garden has also been set apart.

I had never thought about the other disciples in the garden. It was the confirmation I needed that I should sit this one out. and the peace to tell the rest of the team they would be going without me (I also had peace, through my bawling and theirs, to tell our very excited girls, Hannah and Esther, that they would not be going to Haiti - with their BFF Kora - on this trip either).

Reading this devotional, written by Lettie Cowman, (one of the founders of the mission we're part of, One Mission Society) had special significance. One missionary to another. One woman to another. One believer to another. I was deeply moved.

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And now, for the brave among you, photos post-surgery, starting with the most recent. As I woke up from the anesthesia, I was thinking about two stripes on my leg, like the go-faster red stripes down the side of my very first car, a cute black Mini. My stripes are healing. But the lessons are for a lifetime.