People in the Waiting Room.

So much. Just so much.

Since I last posted, there has been a lot. Just a lot.

I found a lump in my finger. Strange, I know. Assuming it was cyst I went to the doctor to see if it would self-resolve. She sent me to a hand specialist who said it needed to come out. A 20 minute procedure, a numb hand, and outta there in under an hour? I was certain I could handle it.

I went in that Monday morning with a good book to read during the minor operation - Pilgrim's Progress, a personal favorite. The doctor came by; for my "pre-op" he said he needed to take another look at the mass. He got a second opinion. They mumbled and poked and prodded, asking "does this hurt?" and "how about this?" No, I answered. None of it hurt. But I would really like it they would just take it out so I could get back to my book.

A nurse came in and told me she was going to put my IV in. She gave me a gown and told me to undress. She left. Another doctor came and told me they were going to put me under because the procedure seemed more "complicated" than anticipated. I fought. He won. The nurse came back. She wheeled me into an operating room. The room was white and chilly. They placed my hand on the table and pulled it through a sleeved tarp so I couldn't see what they were doing. The young doctor told me I was going to fall asleep soon. I woke to him telling me it was all over.

I next woke to find myself in a post-op room. Sensors on every finger. My left hand bandaged entirely. Heart monitors on my chest. Braces on my legs. Oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. And one very painful IV. No one was there. A dozen or so patients, some sleeping, some crying, some hacking.

But no one else.

No nurse. No doctor. No mom. I saw two white plastic bags with my name on them at the foot of my bed. I saw they held my belongings. I had no one waiting for me in the waiting room. No one checking on me to let me know what all these tubes were. I didn't even have a room to go back to. The belongings that marked my territory had been bagged and brought along. Someone else was in my room now, getting the speech about getting put under and being asked to take their clothes off.

And I was afraid.

It seemed to me that I was just a body. Just a mass of flesh laying on a table, taking up a bed. The nurse returned and asked me to eat. I couldn't. She said I had to if I wanted to leave. I couldn't.

The doctor came and told me that the mass wasn't a cyst, but a tumor. Now, that's a scary word and all, but that' doesn't mean its cancerous. They're still biopsying it to find out. But, either way, I'm different. I've learned something of great worth between those hospital rooms.

We are more than bodies. We are human.

On that table, I was the doctors' fifth surgery of the day, and he had dozens more head of him. To the nurse I was another girl who couldn't eat and one who didn't want the strong meds that make her nauseated. I was just a body. Just a series of equations waiting to be figured out.

But … to my people, I am human. Having people in the waiting room reminds you there you're in relationship. Being in relationship reminds us that we were made fore intimacy. For care. Forunion. This surgery has reminded me that I wasn't created autonomously. Someone once said, "I am an island." I don't remember their name - and maybe that's the point - but I know I certainly am not.

We are human. We crave. We hunger. We break.

We are weak. We are afraid. We get lumps in our fingers.

We are intricately designed to need people.

We need touch. We need conversation. We need people in the waiting room.