De-liver-ance

The last time you and I spoke, Ben had just finished having a big needle poked into his chest and a central line put in for hydration. A month later, he's doing well.

For a few weeks after the procedure, Ben wasn't allowed to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk.

Boy, did he milk it.

I completed the vast majority of our chores for a while - laundry, cleaning, garbage, recycling, yelling at the recycling bin for tipping over backwards when I opened it too fast, checking the mail, yelling at the mailbox because the mail carrier had left it open again, grocery shopping, and, as usual, not cooking.

I was a ray of sunshine.

We did have a medical scare that I wanted to tell you about. We had assumed that Ben's remaining intestines were just having a difficult time readjusting to him not being on a serious pain medication. (“Ben's Remaining Intestines” is a great name for a band. I'm just throwing that out there.)

One of the positive side effects of his former medication was that it decreased bowel motility, which is wonderful if you have short-gut syndrome, like Ben. However, the negative side effects outweighed the good, so he made the decision to safely wean off that medication. We thought that after some extended IV hydration, he would start gaining weight again and would get back to his normal.

Ben had an appointment with his GI doctor to discuss bloodwork results. When he picked me up from work that evening, he was calm at first, but worried.

"The doctor wants me to be tested for something called PSC. He's afraid I might have it because of my history of Crohn's and since I'm losing weight. My liver function is not normal and I need an MRI so he can check for it."

He went on to tell me that PSC is a type of auto-immune disease that specifically attacks the liver.

"If I have it, there's no cure. I would need a liver transplant at some point," Ben said, and broke down crying.

My stomach went hot and my skin went cold. As I've told you before, Ben is a stoic warrior in regards to his health. He's been through so much. Not a lot phases him. Seeing him so upset terrified me.

My mind was reeling, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I held Ben's hands, bowed my head, and prayed.

"Lord," I began, my voice trembling, "we trust You."

I paused while the tears came and said it again.

"We trust You."

I finished my prayer. I imagined Ben and I huddled together in a small cave, watching waves pound onto the shore while a furious wind whipped sand into the air. How long would this storm last?

In moments of crisis, I tend to hold up pretty well. I might fall apart in the aftermath, as the shock wears off and I'm left with emotional trauma, but I'm good at triage. I began to research PSC and found some success stories of people who are living and thriving after liver transplants. I found out that a liver transplant can be from a living donor. I vowed to knock on every door in the country to find a donor if I wasn't a match.

At home, I did something completely new for me. I felt a motivation - almost a compulsion - to do my absolute best to focus on speaking lovingly, being positive, and staying in prayer.

That might sound like a cakewalk to you - in fact, I hope it does - but it's often not easy for me. Please don't misunderstand me - I'm not saying that I think that I created any measurable positive outcome in Ben's health by being nice or Jesus-y. That's not a theologically sound way of interpreting Scripture, in my opinion.

It's more like - the Holy Spirit seemed so near to us that I had no choice but to live in joy, in peace, in reverence to the awesome power of our Creator. I wanted to invite beauty into my sphere of influence because it would have been disrespectful and sinful to do otherwise. I simply didn't have the desire to upset the abiding goodness of the Presence in our lives. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced.

Whether we received good news or bad, it was clear that we would never be alone. Jehovah-Shammah, the Lord is there!

We were on our way home again the evening we got the results.

"Mr. Ream, I've got some good news for you," said the GI nurse over the car's speakerphone, "there's no evidence of PSC, hepatitis, or cancer. You need to follow up with the doctor in a couple of weeks, but we've ruled out a lot of stuff."

This time, I didn't say anything but thank you. Thank you, Lord, thank you, thank you.

In the time following this news, we've continued to seek out the perfect combination of fluid and foods so that Ben will hang on to his hydration and gain some weight. He continues to get IV fluids weekly and will soon meet with a dietitian who works with short-gut patients. We're back to the theory that his gut will readjust eventually. He's eliminating some specific artificial sugars to see if that will improve his liver function.

We're both aware of the sweetness lingering in our home after this past month. Although it is January, I wouldn't be surprised if I looked out my front door and saw bright, sunny jonquils already blooming. I continue to praise my Lord for showing me it was safe to trust Him.

I consider the baby birds that make nests in our neighbor's tree every spring. Sometimes, they fall onto the ground and must be tenderly rescued by those much bigger and powerful. I am no different from these tiny, fragile things. And yet, my God says I am far more valued.

I pray this majestic, monumental peace will remain and pray your weary heart will be enveloped by God's gentle Spirit, as well. For now, the storm is gone, and the horizon stretches out in an endless, limitless field of blue.

January 4, 2019