Psalms 107-110
It has been more than a day since my CT scan, which is long enough for my mind to start assigning meaning to the wait. Results usually come back quickly, so I find myself checking again, as if refreshing the page often enough might make an answer appear. I know the delay could mean any number of ordinary things. Unfortunately, anxiety has never been especially interested in ordinary explanations.
Earlier, I was crying and praying because I did not know what else to do with the fear. I wanted to explain it properly to God, though I suppose He hardly needed me to. Psalm 107 gives that kind of prayer only two words:
It was the mention of healing that made me pause. I want the scan to be clear. I want my body to be well. And beneath those specific hopes, I think I want the freedom to go about an ordinary day without wondering what might be happening inside me.
I have seen God help me before. Prior to my cancer diagnosis, I was healthy and active and hardly ever needed a hospital. Then my life filled with surgery, IVF, chemotherapy, procedures, and side effects. It was an enormous amount to absorb, and I was scared. But I also had this quiet, almost inexplicable peace through it all. Even now, looking back, I cannot convincingly claim that I produced it myself. God was with me, and I felt Him carrying me through things I would never have chosen.
You might think that remembering this would make waiting easier. In some ways it does; I know who held me through treatment. But I still get anxious. I still check for the result and imagine what it might say. That is the tension I feel in the words of Psalm 108:
I believe I can say it, though perhaps with a trembling voice. I trust God, and I keep checking for the result. I have surrendered this to Him, and I would still very much like an answer tonight. Those things feel contradictory when I write them down, but they are an honest account of where I am. Perhaps confidence in Him does not require me to feel certain about my circumstances. I am asking Him for the peace He gave me before, because I cannot simply summon it by remembering that I once had it.
The waiting also lands on a body that has not finished recovering. My lungs are not back to baseline. Gentle exercise can leave me aching; even cleaning can make my back hurt. Prednisone has changed my appearance, and I miss how I looked before it. I miss feeling strong and familiar to myself. By the time a follow-up scan comes around, I am already tired, and then I have to make room for fear again. It can feel as though recovery keeps asking for more patience than I have left.
I have hesitated to call any of this pain, perhaps because I know how much I have to be grateful for. But gratitude does not make the harder parts of recovery disappear. Psalm 109 holds both a plea for help and an admission of hurt:
The psalmist is speaking about a different kind of suffering, but I was relieved to read a sentence that did not require me to soften what I feel. I am grateful to God. I am not angry with Him. I am also sad about what has changed, and exhausted by how often I have to confront it. Sometimes I would rather play a game and let my mind be somewhere else for a while. Honestly, sometimes I need that respite. What troubles me is when I use distraction for so long that I stop telling God what is going on with me.
Maybe I have thought that bringing Him my pain means sitting with every difficult feeling until I am overwhelmed by it. But the people in Psalm 107 did not give a thorough account of their distress before God heard them. They cried, “Lord, help.” I can begin there. I can rest when I need to, return when I have wandered, and speak to Him from the middle of this uncertain, unfinished recovery. He has heard me frightened before. He can hear me frightened now.