An update for T

As promised- I would LOVE to take a few minutes of your time and update you all to how “T” is doing. The beginning of this week were super emotional for all involved. It was hard to pour out all the love you had in you caring for this guy, taking him up to watch the sunsets and kick around a football knowing what the reality of Wednesday was. I left work after night shift Wednesday morning not really knowing how to leave things. So I said, I’ll see you tonight, he promised me a smile when I came back to work after his surgery, I told him to stay strong and that I believed in him. I walked away, tears in my eyes hoping that I would in fact see him that night. I went to sleep, waking up a few times throughout the day to send up a quick prayer for all those involved in the operating room. At 5pm I got up and couldn’t muster the courage to walk over to the ward alone. I decided instead to head up to the cafeteria, hoping that someone would be up from the ward on their dinner break. The first person I saw when I walked in was Deb, one of our  long term crew and charge nurses on the ward. She threw up a thumbs up and told me he still had about 2 hours left in his case but that all was well! I clapped my hands and smiled ear to ear, full of joy. That evening I had a one hour slot in which I had signed up for to pray for him.  It was the 6-7pm slot--the same time in which I had spent the previous two evenings with him. I sat out on the deck, watching the sun set, and I prayed for all of his days and for how deeply he had impacted all of us. He touched us not only with his story, or the way he faced his illness, but with the way just by existing he forced us all to think of our lives. How we should strive each day to be better, to do more, to make every day count, and question how we would act knowing the end could be near. It is heavy, and things he has taught me will stay emblazed on my heart forever. Wednesday night after getting to work I somehow felt silly for being so concerned with his surgery. I felt silly that I didn’t just believe that he would come through but focused too much on the medical facts. What does that say of my faith? He came through it with flying colors, doing better then any of us could have ever imagined. It is hard to remember looking at him that his entire blood volume was replaced, almost three times. That 9 people gave blood for him, essentially replacing all of his own blood, and that he was at the hands of a surgeon for 8 hours. That night he just kept reaching up, touching where his tumor had hung down to his chest, and writing to ask if it was all gone. Yes, I joyfully told him each time, It’s gone, we saved your eye, and in a few days once all the swelling has gone down we can undo the tight bandages you can see your new face. His biggest complaint is that his ankles and legs hurt, stiff from being immobile for such a long case. All night I just sat, rubbing his feet hoping to alleviate some of the pain in order to let him rest. It reminded me of times in my childhood when my knees would hurt so bad from growing pain. I would lay and cry and my Mom and Dad would just rub my legs until I could rest, staying up late themselves in order to comfort their child who they loved so much. So there I sat, managing all of his ICU monitoring devices, but really the best part of it was that I got to just be with him, rubbing his feet and letting him know that we were all still here, caring and loving him. Hoping that by rubbing I could somehow infuse into him my hopes for his life, that by osmosis he could feel my love and his worth. The next day he requested to leave the ICU. He wanted to go back to his own bed, be with all the other people of the ward in loving community. By the time I came on shift he was walking to the bathroom with a lot of assistance, being shorter than him I was the perfect height for him to wrap an arm around and lean on during the walks. Each time, before he got back in bed he would do some leg stretches, then curl up, and let me stuff pillows around him to make his skinny body comfortable. Looking at him it’s easy to see how well he’s doing, to celebrate his victory, and to cheer him on to a full recovery. He has seen his imminent death and conquered it because of what Mercy Ships has been able to do for him. I am in awe of the life I have been called to, insanely grateful for the gift that I have been given by faithful supporters like you.... To live here on a hospital ship in West Africa, to have a hand in changing lives, and through these experiences be transformed myself every single day.