COVID-19 is the gift that keeps on giving.
I’m still waiting for my eyes to clear up. My understanding is that it could take a while. I’m still waiting for the COVID headache to clear out and stay out. I’ve heard that, too, could take a while. On the days with the headache, I can be fairly certain that nothing productive will happen. At least I don’t always stack a sinus headache on top of it. I still have occasional coughing fits, though they are getting less frequent. They’ve never been as severe as what I had to fight with last year. In my mind, I still have times when I swear at COVID.
Sitting in the ER with Grandmama several days ago, I got a chance to hear some real suffering. I could hear a man who absolutely could not stop coughing. It seemed to me that he almost couldn’t stop coughing long enough to even breathe. I could only imagine how terrified he must have been. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sound. There was plenty of fear to go around that day, what with sitting with Grandmama and hoping she could get the help she needed, because at that point it seemed like like she was on a slow, miserable road toward death. And yet, it felt like there were angels there, walking the halls and coming in the rooms. The health-care workers were angels, but there were also times I felt as though there were family guardian angels gathered in prayer around us, unseen by mortal eyes and unheard by mortal ears.
I have found myself many times since then, praying more fervently and frequently on behalf of the mortal angels who are the health-care workers trying to ease the fear and suffering that comes when someone, COVID or not, walks through the emergency room doors.
Grandmama is coming home today. I’m a little scared, because I don’t want to watch her do this again – to be unable to stay hydrated and nourished at home – it was so frightening and difficult to see it before. I sit and remind myself that worry is not prayer, and I try again to pray and trust God.
I remind myself that none of this is a surprise to God. He knew long ago that I would face these circumstances and he knew I’d feel inadequate. Somehow I have to trust that he knows I’ll do my imperfect best to do what needs to be done, and he’ll work out the things I mess up in his own way. I’m sure at the end of this stage of the journey, there will be things I look at and wish I’d done better. I’m grateful for a God who forgives and let’s me try to do better the next time. It’s a good thing, since I figure I’m doing well to get things right 25% more of the time than I did before.
Twenty-five percent better than before is my idea of perfect. That’s my goal. It’s enough of a challenge that I’ll keep trying to do better, and realistic enough to help me remember that perfection is a bad attitude, and I sometimes need help.
Update from later in the day: Grandmama is doing remarkably well right now. The doctor speculates that COVID triggered her nausea, but severe, chronic pain kept her caught in the vicious cycle. She’ll be seeing her rheumatologist about that very soon.
It is amazing how a small amount of hope can bring new life to a weary heart. I am so grateful.