When wounds don’t heal…

I’m a pediatric nurse at heart, with a few years of women’s health experience thrown in there. But there’s an old man in the corner bed who’s stolen, and broken, my heart. He’s 65 years old, and by circumstances that are out of his control he’s been on the ward for about 4 weeks now; 3 more than he’d planned on. I’m sure if you’d asked him, he would wonder if coming to the ship was the right decision, and that’s why it hurts so much to see him every day, with his head in his hands, massaging the headache that’s formed behind his eyes.

Thomas had a large mandible tumor that had been growing on the right side of his jaw for the past few years. It wasn’t a giant tumor, not like some that we’ve seen. But big enough that taking it out involved removing half of his jaw bone, and replacing it with a titanium plate. A pretty common procedure here on the Africa Mercy. Jaw bone and tumor come out, titanium plate goes in, the patient stays for 7-10 days then goes home and returns in 3 months to have a bone graft from his hip placed onto the titanium plate so that new bone can grow. That’s how it should work at least. But sometimes, wounds break down. Sometimes years and years of malnutrition effects one’s ability to heal, and sometimes, us nurses find ourselves at handover every day praying for a wound to close, and yet it gets bigger and bigger.

Thomas’s incision had opened up to the point that it would not close on it’s own. He had a hole that went all the way through his cheek, and the titanium plate that was put in just 3 1/2  weeks before, was completely exposed. I sat next to his bed the other day and talked with him about why we had to change the bandages on his face three times a day. I told him I was sorry that he’s been here so long and that his wounds weren’t healing. I told him that he would need to go back to the OR to have another surgery. He did a lot of nodding, which is culturally appropriate, and didn’t ask any questions. And then I asked him, “Thomas, are you discouraged?” and with sad eyes he raised his eyebrows. The Malagasy expression of “yes”.

Thomas is a man of few words, and mostly facial expressions. I feel that the things I try to say to him seem to fall flat. That a lot of what I say gets lost in translation, literally. What do I tell someone who has a gaping wound in his face that’s not getting better? What do I tell someone who’s come to the ship thinking he’s finally found the answer to his prayers, that his tumor will be removed, but then things don’t go how he hoped, or how we hoped. I find myself frustrated that I can’t do more for him.

Yet, some moments, I look over at his bed and, instead of his head in his hands, he’s got his large reading glasses perched on his nose with the arms of the glasses overtop of his head bandage, and he’s reading his French Bible. It is in those times, when I see him with his Bible open on his lap, that I ask the Lord to speak to him. That the Word would become life to him and encourage him like I am unable to do. That this time that he’s spent day after day, dressing change after dressing change, would not be time that has been wasted. But that it would be time where the Lord drew near to Thomas. Where Thomas heard the Lord speak to him and encourage him.

Thomas went to the operating room on friday and they removed the exposed titanium plate, leaving him with no jaw on his right side. They also closed the hole in his cheek. As happy as I was that the wound was closed, I found myself worrying about him. I worry that the incision line will open up again like it did the first time. That the skin will breakdown and another hole will form. That without any shape to his jaw the side of his face will sink in and he’ll wonder if he was better off having the tumor in his face then having no jaw bone.

Would you pray for Thomas? That his wounds would heal. That the second surgery will work and his skin won’t breakdown as it’s already shown to be prone to do? Will you pray for a miraculous healing for him? And will you pray for my doubt? My doubt that is afraid that it won’t work. That the wound will never close. That the ship will sail away from Madagascar in June and Thomas will be left with a hole in his face wishing he’d never come.

I know that the Lord sees Thomas. That He knows his name, and that there’s a purpose in all of this. In every bandage change and in every day that’s gone by and Thomas remains in his corner bed. It’s so easy to want everything to be easy, to be quick, and to go as planned. But I’m reminded frequently that our plans are not the Lord’s; even if our plans seem good. Sometimes, I find myself asking the Lord what he’s doing. As if He’s out of line. As if He forgot “the plan”. As if I know what He should’ve done. And then I have to get myself back in line. Who am I to doubt the Lord? I don’t know how the Lord will use this time, but I can trust that He will not walk away and leave Thomas alone.

So in that I will put my hope..