February began - well really January ended - with my contracting mononucleosis along with tonsillitis and a super-imposed bacterial infection on my larynx. It led to two weeks in hospital and unfortunately in isolation – from those I loved and those I worked with and, it felt like, from God. The first 8 days at Massachusetts General Hospital, I was in the White Ward floor 9, room 236B or as I had come to think of it: Hell. This sounds like an exaggeration to most reading this, I am sure, and I have done some reflection during this time of Lent and thinking on Jesus in the wilderness. I have come to think, now, of my time in that hellacious room as my own kind of Wilderness. It was as though I was being tortured and tormented by my illness and setting in which I was supposed to be recovering. To begin with, my throat and tonsils were so swollen I could not swallow anything but my own saliva. Anything but saliva would cause me to spit up in varying shades of green mucus. I could hardly speak with the pain in my throat and the revolving number of nurses, CNAs, and doctors coming in to ask me questions or update me on my lack of progress made it painful when I wanted to talk with my visitors. My super-imposed bacterial infection was sitting on my larynx and causing most of this pain, yet I was not started on antibiotics until a week into my stay having been told I would eventually get better. It was just a really bad case of mono, right? The undiagnosed infection was a significant contributing factor to the Wilderness I was experiencing. Another cause of my Wilderness and time of intense pain was the environment in room 236B. My neighbor, a tiny, eighty-year old woman, was constantly vocalizing her extreme discomfort, incontinence, and frustration with the nurses’ lack of attention made it extremely difficult to get any rest. I could not sleep during the day when she was awake and yelling or moaning in agony. I could not sleep at night because of the pain in my throat causing me to cough up mucus. During this first week, I was so anxious, stressed, and in my own world of agony I would cough up blood – due to the irritation to my throat, of course. I begged my nurses to move me. Take me out of the living Hell that was room 236B. I wasn’t getting any rest. I wasn’t getting any better. The height of this agony, this Wilderness, was one particularly aggravating coughing fit where I was coughing up more blood, my heart was racing and my chest was tight, I had no idea of the time or day, tears streaked my sallow cheeks, and my thoughts turned to what I could have done to deserve all this. My Wilderness was the physical agony, but also the distance I was feeling to those I loved. Because mono is contagious, I couldn’t be in close contact with anyone and because of the pain, even when I had visitors, I was too sleepy and incoherent from the medication to have meaningful conversations. In a word, I was consumed by hopelessness because I wasn’t getting any better and there was nothing I could do about it. So, what was left for me to do? In my Wilderness, I prayed. I prayed for wisdom to the many doctors that came to see me; I prayed for my roommate to shut up; I prayed for Rebekah and Mara and Sarah that our fracturing community would heal; I prayed for the demon within me to be expelled; I prayed for my kind-hearted nurses who sympathized with me as I cried; I prayed for Mom, Dad, Aaron, Aaron’s mom; I prayed for my roommate and her loud visitors; I prayed in thanksgiving for being able to be in a good hospital and under the care of competent doctors, nurses, and CNAs; I prayed for healing; I prayed for hope. One person I am so grateful for (though there are many) is a CNA, Disney. She was such a bright light in my time in 236B. She sat with me during one of my coughing fits and held my cold, pale hand in her own warm, plastic-gloved hand. Unprompted, she asked if she could pray with me and I nodded. I felt more at peace in those minutes than I had all week. The power of prayer through an angel such as this CAN was so needed, so uplifting, and so life-giving. It was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. The next day, Aaron insisted I should be moved out of the hellacious room and the nurses complied. I was finally on the right track to getting better. In reflecting about this Wilderness, I must admit my hesitation to return to it in full. I didn’t want to remember the hard parts but have since grown to recognize them as the shadows that make the light parts brighter. They put into sharp relief the blessings I received in those two weeks and in my life. Love and kindness and selfless care were shown to me throughout. I wouldn’t be where I am now without all that from my mom who came in the last few days of my hospital stay to give some much needed TLC. Aaron, my boyfriend, was steadfastly at my side for as long as he could with a busy work schedule. Aaron’s mom, Lynn, cared for me while my own mom was in California. Rebekah, my fellow YAV, never missed a time to visit and update me on her day. And many, many others I hold in my heart with deep gratitude. My wilderness, my hopelessness, was a time of pain and yet it also called for deeper spiritual reflection. What did it mean to me that I experienced so much agony, but made it through with emotional scars that I know will eventually heal? How was my situation in early February similar and dissimilar to those affected by COVID-19 today? What can I do to be in solidarity with those who’re experiencing isolation in the hospital and those who are unable to work for weeks? What practices can I implement in this time of chaos and societal upheaval to advocate for the marginalized and the overlooked? What can we do to be a bright light in these dark times?
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AuthorHi, I'm Sierra! I will be serving in Boston, MA as a Boston Food Justice Young Adult Volunteer for the 2019-2020 academic year. I graduated college with a major in Philosophy and minored in Classical Studies. Archives
July 2020
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