Finding Hope in the Somewhats

        The cardiologist entered my assigned exam room. Hubby and I would get the lowdown on yet another diagnosis for me—this time, AFib.* Not life-threatening, I’d been told, but a concern primarily due to increased risk of stroke.

        Okay. I started on a prescribed medication to combat stroke. Next step?

        I hoped for ablation. Yup! That held possibility of eliminating this new threat to my already presumed abbreviated life due to lung disease. So, that’s what my choice would be.

        Ablation: a medical procedure where an instrument would be fed from my lower region up into my heart and burn out the tiny area causing an extra systolic beat. Goal: Changing the bah-bah-bum, returning it to a normal bah-bum.

        That would do quite fine, thank you very much.

        But the cardiologist didn’t have those words for me. Instead, he said, “Normally we could…”

        Normally? Uh-oh. Already a warning here, raced this thought through my head.

        “…go in and…” and the doctor went on quite calmly.

        My mind skipped over the rest of his “normally” to the “but.”

        “But because of your lung disease, I wouldn’t take the risk of operating on you. Putting you under.” He x-ed out ablation in the diagram he’d already drawn on a white board to explain AFib.      

        I zeroed in on him. “I hoped you could fix this.”

        “I’m sorry, but your situation makes it more risk than worth.” He stood silent for some moments.

        I processed: No ablation. Stupid lung disease. Rats! “Oh well,” I finally blurted, shrugging my shoulders and glancing at my husband with a grimace.

        “I can prescribe a medication. It’s not a fix, but it’s somewhat of a help,” the doctor said.

        I tilted my head left to right and back again. “I guess somewhat’s better than nothing.”

        “It is.”

        So, we left the doctor’s office with a tidbit of hope in my overly active heart.

        When we were back in the car, I admitted, “I’m sort of disappointed. I really hoped to cross this problem off my list.”

        “It would’ve been nice,” Brian said. “Maybe you’ll feel better after a nice lunch. You pick the place.”

        “Joisey Mike’s!” I said attempting to lighten my mood.

        “Okay, Joisey girl!”

        And we headed on our way.

        “I wanna cry but not,” I said. “I mean, this isn’t a nothing. Right?”

        “Right,” Brian affirmed.

        “Sorta like when we went to the pulmonologist, and he told me I made gains after months of rehab. Some progress. So much hard work to gain just 1% in one score and 2% in another on my PFT** though.” My shoulders dropped.

        “But, Sarah, at least your scores went up, not down,” Brian said, turning toward our next stop.

        “I know. I guess it helped somewhat.”

        “And somewhat’s better than nothing. Right?”

 

        I broke a smile. “Where have I heard that before?”

 

        Somewhat’s better than nothing. Something to cling to—to keep me from drowning.

 

       Was I disappointed? For a while. Maybe 30 minutes. But, I admit, I thoroughly enjoyed that Jersey Mike’s sub!

*****

        Not long ago, I shared in a blog post about a young lady named Jane who went by stage-name Nightbirde. She had cancer that returned a 3^rd time—this time giving her only a 2% chance of survival. I think Jane must’ve struggled with that news when her oncologist broke it to her.

 

        But Jane (a believer in Jesus) wasn’t always weighted down by this news. Instead, at the close of her audition on America’s Got Talent, this beautiful but frail woman said, “I have a 2% chance of survival, but 2% is not 0%. 2% is something, and I wish people knew how amazing it is.”

 

        Can you imagine? I can’t, yet faith in Jesus Christ offers hope—solid ground to stand on.

 

        My diagnosis is so far below the seriousness of Jane’s, yet—for a brief moment—we may’ve share something in common—finding something in what looked more like nothing. 

        And that’s something! Small perhaps but a positive step.

        Reader, have you been in a situation where you find yourself questioning if there’s anything left? Does it look like you’re facing nothing? Are you wanting to cling to something?

        Someone?

        Hope! There’s always hope because that isn’t just a thing—it’s a Him! Jesus Christ provides a solid foundation for our faith, and this gives us hope…

        …even in the somewhats.

The Solid Rock

 

My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus' Name.

Refrain: On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand: all other ground is sinking sand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

 

When darkness veils His lovely face, I rest on His unchanging grace;
In every high and stormy gale, my anchor holds within the veil. [Refrain]

 

His oath, His covenant, His blood, support me in the whelming flood;
When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay. [Refrain]

 

When He shall come with trumpet sound, O may I then in Him be found:
Dressed in His righteousness alone, faultless to stand before the throne. [Refrain]

(from the hymn, The Solid Rock, by Edward Mote, 1834, public domain)

 

#hope #AFib #ablation #JesusChrist #firmfoundation #solidrock

  *atrial fibrillation

**Pulmonary Function Test

Photo Credit: Hope in sky—vecteezy.com

Dreams ~ Part 2 ~The I-Hope-So Kind

        It all starts with a dream!

        Yep, that’s what the poster in the office of the used-car salesman announced. But why were we there? We’d not been in the market for a car and had a dependable one until the previous week.

        Then the hailstorm struck! Not just any hailstorm. We’re talkin’ record-breaking! And amongst the 1,000s of vehicles that were targeted was… 

        Ours—a 2019 Ford Explorer with tow hitch! Totaled!

        But why mention the hitch?

        Because it didn’t really start with the hailstorm.

        It started with a dream.

        Back up with me to January 18^th, 2024. Brian and I sat in a used car dealership signing our lives away (not really but it felt that way) to purchase the Explorer because we’d need a vehicle hefty enough to tow a camper.

        Did we own a camper? No, but—hey—that was part of the dream, and we figured we’d take step 1—heftier vehicle—then pray for step 2’s provision. But why did we need a camper?

        Let’s back up even further. September 12^th, 2023 our son’s memoir* celebrated its release! This, the culmination of a year’s writing by Min dictating to me, his scribe. Once the writing was done, the editing began and all the other amazing headaches that go into getting a book ready to market. I can’t say I ever remember a more stressful experience, but…

        This was our son’s dream—to tell his story. He was 100% sure God wanted him to do it, despite how difficult it would be with his neurodivergent challenges and physical illness. And, while we worked together as a family to help Min fulfill his dream, Brian and I realized this was a God-assignment.

        Authors market their books. How would this happen? We’d couple Min’s dream with our need to travel for missionary deputation/outreach. After all, it’d been quite a while since Brian and I had been able to visit supporting churches and individuals.

        “It’ll be fun,” Min said.

        “It’ll be a great opportunity,” I said.

        “It’ll require means for us affording it,” Brian said, “and that will take an updated vehicle able to pull a camper for our lodging.”

        So, we began mapping out routes—where we’d travel during what season of the year. Min purchased a variety of interesting him-like items for his book-signing table (including mini glow-in-the-dark aliens because he was certain everyone would want one), and Brian and I went to buy the car.

        So, that brings us up to the purchase + 1 month.

        The dream that we caught from Min crashed when I stepped into a pulmonologist’s office, learned I had a lung disease, and would be placed on oxygen 24/7. Oh, it was much more complex than that, but another doctor let us know I might be helped and could possibly go off oxygen if we did a home mold study and had that cleaned out.

        $30,000+ later, after months of tearing apart our home and the pros removing mold throughout much of our abode and the reconstruct (which was its own nightmare), time would tell if there was hope for me and my fibrotic lungs.

        Call me naïve. Call me ignorant. Call me whatever you want (within reason), but I thought even at this point we’d adapt, drag along a portable O2 unit, and live out our dream.

        But this goal hung in the balances. I was so sick and my prognosis less than promising, barring Divine Intervention. The idea of going anywhere planted anxiety and doubt.

        And after our house was “cured,” I was not. My disease had progressed too far.

        Then Brian experienced health challenges ending in a surgery that permanently damaged his right arm functions. Would he be able to handle setting up a camper? Drive long distances? Have any energy left to do meetings or book-signings after all that? We had serious doubts.

        Thus, the dream took another hit. We resigned to the fact we must rethink our dream which, by now, also “lacked oxygen!”

        Why tell you all this, reader? Because sometimes our I-hope-so dreams can be delayed, change, become wounded, break, or even die.

        In our case, this wasn’t the end of the world, but we did need to toss our original plan, grieve the loss, and accept it as God directing us in another way.

        I guess I somewhat grieved losing the Ford Explorer. Not because it wasn’t replaceable. Of course it was, but it represented our incomplete dream—the one birthed when Min finished his memoir.

        And now that I’ve had some time to reflect on the past month, I realize I wasn’t really grieving the now-totaled car. I more than likely revisited my own grief—the one stealing breath from my lungs.

        Since grief can hit repeatedly over time, might I even grieve this again? And again?

        And yet again?

        In some ways, I compartmentalized all this. Example (talking to myself): Sarah, you’re getting older. You could’ve had a disease at this point in life or even died. I mean, you’ve even outlived your mother. So, is a problem like this really very surprising?

        Oops! That wasn’t a very “neatly packed little box.”

        Or: How about being thankful for the life you still have, Sarah? Look at all God’s done for you and is going to continue to do because of His unfailing love?

        Now that’s much better!

        What about dreams that are much more important than what I’ve shared? The loss of a child? A fire that consumes everything? Being victim of a crime?

        All dreams that don’t succeed have a certain amount in common but to greatly differing degrees, depending on its “name” and closeness of it.

        So, what, dear reader, can you do if your dream suffers a blow?

        May I suggest these steps to you?

1)     Recognize the dream might not be what it started out to be.

2)     Grieve the loss of your original dream—even if it requires revisiting it.

3)     Pray and commit your broken dream to God. He is able and willing to help.

4)     Be assured He can heal broken dreams, no matter what they are.

5)     Adopt a new dream. You may be surprised where God leads through this.

        Reader, how ’bout you and I take our broken dreams, hand the pieces over to God, and let Him create something new, useful, and beautiful!

        And, no matter what! Keep looking up! The God of Hope is ever-present, has a plan for our good, and is able to carry us through!

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord,

thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

Jeremiah 29:11 NKJV

         I’ve Come Too Far to Look Back by Nancy Harmon (1970s)

“…He can mend broken dreams…”

I've Come Too Far | Small Town USA | Official Music Video | Redeemed Quartet

#dreams #hopes #plans #grieving #newdreams #Godcanmend

Disclaimer: I am not a counselor—just a person who shares her experiences with hope those help others along life’s way.

 

*A Home for Min Soo ~ Putting Together the Pieces of My Life by Kim, Min Soo

Photo Credit: broken dreams—shutterstock.com, son with memoir—family owned, USA map—alamy