The Next Step

As I sipped coffee and typed on my laptop yesterday morning, an unfamiliar pressure built behind my left eye. In time, I couldn't keep the words from splitting in two, even with my prism glasses on. So, when my mouth spasmed down and left again and pain increased, I went to the ER. 

Based on a very thorough exam, I’ll share the little I know. 

The CT angiogram that was taken ten days ago showed a Cavernous Carotid Fistula. However, when the CT scan was repeated yesterday, the radiologist saw a “filling” in the cavernous sinus area. Due to the varying results, we won’t know exactly what’s going on until I have a more invasive angiogram Thursday morning—which my insurance has yet to approve.

Will you pray that the proper paperwork gets filed so we can go ahead with the procedure?

A fistula behind the eye can threaten vision, so the on-call neuro-ophthalmologist was contacted. After she ascertained that my optic nerve and blood vessels look healthy the ER team determined I did not need emergency intervention. 

The pressure still builds as I type and I fight low grade nausea when I move around too much. But the hours are ticking by and soon more dye and specialized x-rays will help doctor's discern a plan. 

So how do I feel?

Mostly calm.

I cancelled my end-of-the-year student recital and putzed around the house today. My shelves are polished, my kitchen clean, and the cat litter ready for another fill. I showered, napped, ate dinner with friends, and even played a round of Yahtzee. 

However, if someone asked if the whole thing feels odd, I would offer a resounding, "Yes! This feels very odd."

For those who don't remember, I lost my first husband to a brain tumor in 1996. Thus, the last time my mom and I hung out at Emory University Hospital, we were waiting to hear that he'd survived a surgical biopsy. 

With Don out of town this week, my mom, my oldest son, and I will head that way early on Thursday and wait to learn what's going on in my brain. It's definitely not the same as having a brain biopsy.

But it's simply odd. Hard to fathom even.

So where is God in all of this? I have only one answer:

In the very air that I breathe. 

Long summer days stretch ahead that I would rather fill with something other than hospital visits and medical concerns. But here, in this place of need, my agenda evolves from mine to His. A rare peace transforms worry into praise. And I can confidently end one more day, knowing He is enough.

I'm not angry or scared. Just surrendered. 

This is not my home. And I hope you don't consider it yours. For only when gravity no longer holds us captive can we confidently take the next step.

All photos courtesy of pixabay.com