My Starfish

You may have heard this story before--but I want to take the time to share it again with you all, and let you know what it has meant to me this week......

The Starfish Story

Original Story by: Loren Eisley 

One day a man was walking along the beach when he noticed

a boy picking something up and gently throwing it into the ocean. 

Approaching the boy, he asked, What are you doing?

The youth replied, Throwing starfish back into the ocean. 

The surf is up and the tide is going out.  If I dont throw them back, they’ll die.

Son, the man said, don’t you realize there are miles and miles of beach and hundreds of starfish? You can’t possibly make a difference!

After listening politely, the boy bent down, picked up another starfish,

and threw it back into the surf.  Then, smiling at the man, he said-I made a difference for that one.

On Wednesday, My starfish, “T” returned. He has returned for a second surgery to move around the excess skin left behind by his massive tumor. If you don’t remember him, check out his story HERE (or just read the majority of my blogs in November/December) We all knew this day was coming, I even put it on my calendar to mark the momentous occasion. Sadly, only 5 of us nurses on the ward were here to witness his miraculous recovery. The nurses have almost completely changed over, and the man that made such an impact on my life and many other lives we now have to explain to those who are caring for him. The man we saw struggle, whose hand we held in the tough moments and the joyful moments, the man who came to us literally skin and bones, who we fed and gave air, the man who faced death, and won--The man who is a legend here, is meeting an almost completely new staff. On the day he arrived, I was working a stretch of night shifts. I was told at dinner, that he had in fact arrived, so I rushed down to the wards to greet him. As I bolted into the ward, he happened to look over and gave me such a heart warming smile. I rushed over, hugged him, and was told through a translator, “ Hannah--He has searched the ship high and low for you today! He wants to know, where have you been?” The answer to which was, In my bed sleeping so that I can watch over you tonight!”  He felt this was okay, and we just stood for a few minutes in each others presence. Being the man he is, he loves to ask about the nurses who were here before, “The Emily’s? Andrea? Ann? Beth? Becky?” he smiles when I tell him they are well, that they are back in the US, working and enjoying life. Normally caregivers are only allowed on board for patients under the age of 18, or in special circumstances where language or other things pose a problem. T of course, is a VERY special circumstance. So I knew that “Momma T” must be around somewhere. In true Mercy Ships fashion, I ducked down to look under the bed, and there she was, sleeping soundly. I left the ward, and told him I’d be back at 10 pm. Early into my shift Momma T woke up, saw my feet, and instantly called out.  I ran over and dove under the bed without even a second thought. Hugging her, being showered with kisses, and again having those heart strings pulled knowing that she is my family. That both T and she are a part of me that I will carry around forever. That I have made an impact with them and them with me. It wasn’t until after I climbed out from under the bed and was moving to the other side of the ward to check on patients that it struck me how odd that would have been to anyone who didn’t work in this place. That in the west caregivers don’t sleep below the beds, and you definitely don’t hug and kiss them, or call them anything remotely close to “Momma”. I left work Thursday morning on a high-- my beloved T was back, and he was having surgery that day after a quick X-ray to show them exactly what would need to happen. When I came back into work Thursday he was sitting in his bed, face untouched by surgery. I gave him a puzzled look, and through motions he told me they wanted another picture. I confirmed with the charge nurse, and he was in fact going for a CT scan the next day at the local hospital. That things just didn’t look “quite right” on the X-ray. My heart instantly broke into a million pieces, I sat down on a chair to receive report from an evening shift nurse, and despite my best attempt not to, tears began streaming down my face. I don’t think she really knew what to do with me, but she just listened, gave me a hug, and told me it was okay to cry. T went for his scan on Friday, and I still don’t know the specifics of what the scan showed because I was off for the weekend, but what I do know is enough; the tumor is back. That it is growing alarmingly fast, and that It may be close to vital structures. All of our pathologies told us that it was benign, but with this growth rate, we are afraid that it might be something else. This knowledge still sits on my chest like a load of bricks. How can it be? How can this be happening? Why is this happening?---we thought that we beat this, that we gave him a new lease at life, that he was given his second chance. To be honest, I don’t know. It’s still raw and painful, and I’m just not really sure what to think. I do know that everything that touches our lives passes through God’s hand--but to be honest I have NO CLUE what God is doing with this--the purpose and the plan of this tumor returning. All I can do is pray. Pray for God to give T peace, to guide our hands and give us wisdom, and to ask for strength. To give me faith and strength to trust Him when I can’t see HIS plan--that he is still good even when my heart feels so heavy and unsure, full of doubt. T is going in for surgery today. He is booked for 4 hours, and the plan is to explore and see what we can do. I went to visit him this morning- As I gave him a hug and Momma kisses I honestly just wanted to sit down on his bed and cry. But I didn’t, because I have to hold it together. I need to be strong and I need to be faithful. So, If you don’t mind, please ask for strength and wisdom for us today. That we can figure out what to do for this man, and even that God just takes care of this. I know that at some point our Western medicine fails, and this is where I am--on my knees with my arms outstretched, holding it up to God.