God’s Bigger Picture Plan Through My Surgery

 

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall make straight your paths.”—Proverbs 3:5-6

Over the years, I will admit that I have been frustrated with God. All the times when I have struggled with people being mean based on my disability, feeling imperfect, and these last six years of chronic pain, I have prayed.

My family and I tried almost every method to treat my chronic pain. I went to doctor after doctor, who all offered possible solutions. Some solutions worked partially, but I was still in a severe amount of pain. I began to ask God what I had done wrong.

When my grandfather died in the midst of my pain, I wondered why God decided to take away the one person who I felt understood my pain. Gradually through my femoral osteotomy recovery, I realized that I hadn’t necessarily done anything wrong; God’s timing and mine were probably different. 

It turned out that having surgery was probably the best solution anyway. The femoral osteotomy surgery would rotate my femur so that my left foot would either be straight or turned outward slightly. None of the medication or other possibilities for relief would have corrected the way I walked. Now because I had surgery, I have a chance to be in less pain and to fall down less.

There were so many times when I cried to God, wondering why I had to handle so much pain. I didn’t feel like I was old enough to deal with it. I worried that I disappointed God somehow or was unfaithful to Him. I didn’t know what else to do. 

I was unsure if I was following the path that God intended for me. Was I being a bad advocate for other people with disabilities? Did I deserve this pain? 

I still don’t understand the reason for my chronic pain, but that’s okay. I am only human. I am not God. God knows what is best for each of us, and humans are not supposed to understand His plan. 

Throughout those rather tough years of chronic pain, I hoped that eventually something would help my legs. I didn’t understand why I had to wait so long. I didn’t understand why nothing worked fully to stop my pain.

Now I have so much more appreciation for God’s plan. Those six years of pain made me stronger. And surgery was not just a solution for my pain; the surgery did not cure my CP, but I didn’t want it to. The surgery will allow me to have a better quality of life.

God had a plan that would fully help me. I just didn’t know it yet. 

The surgery turned my left foot so that my hip won’t slowly slip out of socket. My legs don’t touch anymore when I walk, so hopefully I won’t fall. God used the surgery to help me. Sure enough, God had a plan.

If I hadn’t gone through the pain, I never would have relearned how to walk in a way that is better for my body. I have faith in God in a much deeper way now than I did before. Now I know that God has a plan for me, no matter what.

The Lord truly does work in mysterious ways. I don’t have to understand those ways; I just have to have faith.

My Story Through My Scars

 

I don’t remember when I got my first scar. I was a day old and my stomach had to be stitched because my bowel was perforated. There were some complications when I was born. The bowel perforation most likely led to my having cerebral palsy. I grew up with that first scar and never really questioned it. The area was numb sometimes, but I didn’t really know any different. 

I wasn’t really vain, but I was careful not to wear anything that showed my stomach even though the scar wasn’t noticeable. My second scar came on the inside of my arm. I had an implant put in that regulated my hormones, as the CP may have tampered with that area of my brain. However, the implant was exchanged six times, so I grew very familiar with that scar.

Over time, I’ve had eight or nine surgeries, and this most recent surgery was the most major, with the exception of my first one. The femoral osteotomy gave me eight scars—one for each year I’ve had chronic pain with two to spare. Not all of the bandages have come off yet, but when I saw the first scar from the surgery I was taken aback. It was rather large, and knowing that I had been cut open and stitched back together unnerved me. As I looked at the scar, I had the thought that I needed the scars because my legs were so flawed.

I looked at the rest of my scars in frustration and wondered how my body had gone so wrong. But as I have healed, I realized that my scars aren’t about my flaws—my scars are the way that I have gotten better. 

These scars on my legs make me sad because I hate that surgery was the only option to “fix” me. But my scars have made me stronger. 

The scars hurt. I think that they are ugly. But after all this time, and all this pain, the scars will take that pain away. The scars are a symbol of hope. My scars do not show my suffering; my scars show the overcoming of that suffering.

This surgery is a new beginning for me. The scars on my legs show that I was brave enough to take a chance—even though I don’t know where that chance will lead. I will have a better quality of life because of this surgery, and if that means I will have scars, so be it. 

The scars are hard for me to look at and touch. But what they mean is worth so much more than how they look. The scars mean I am not stuck in pain with no other choice. Though my legs are frustrating, I think they are beautiful—just not on the outside. My legs have held me up for fifteen years even though my bone was rotated. And through the pain throughout those years, I have walked. I have lived my life with legs that needed a little help. And through these scars, my legs got the help they needed—and so did I.

My scars are ugly. I’m not going to say that my scars are beautiful. Rather, what my scars represent is beautiful. I had to be cut open and stitched back together. Those stitches left scars. But those scars mean hope. And with hope and faith, I will walk—no matter how my legs look. My legs are better now, inside and out, not despite the scars but even because of them. 

My scars mean that life gave me an obstacle meant to bring me down—and I didn’t let it. 

Hope For A New Beginning With An Angel By My Side

 

For He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. In their hands they shall bear you up, lest you dash your foot against a stone. —Psalm 91:11-12

I made it through surgery! I have more hope that I may experience much less chronic pain, and that would be amazing. There is one person especially I wish I could share that hope with. I know he’s watching over me as I go through recovery and come closer to hope, but the one person I thought could understand some of what I was going through—and how valuable that this hope, to combat this pain, really is—isn’t here anymore.

My grandfather and I had a few things in common, including chronic pain. Neither of us were happy that we had the condition, but I always thought my grandfather could somewhat understand what going through daily, debilitating pain felt like. 

Our pain was different. My grandfather was obviously quite a bit older than me, so his pain wasn’t really due to a medical condition but some of what comes with aging. My grandfather had very severe back pain that no one should ever have to deal with. About the time my chronic pain began, my grandfather began to have awful, chronic headaches. 

My grandfather was my inspiration. I always knew him to have back pain, but for a long time I was oblivious to his struggle because I was so young. My grandfather was in severe pain, and he had to have a procedure where the nerves in his back were burned. No matter the pain he was in, my grandfather always managed to muster a smile for me and my sister. My grandfather had so much passion and love for life. When my grandfather developed his headaches, it became more obvious to me that he was in pain, and it was harder for him to do activities. My grandfather’s smile, his laugh, and his huge personality despite his pain was my inspiration especially as my pain started.

My grandfather and I were both put on so many medicines—some worked slightly, some didn’t. A nine-year-old with chronic pain is treated conservatively, but my grandfather was put on so many combinations of medications with high dosages. It got to the point where my grandfather was in severe pain every day, no matter the medicines he took. It was hard for him to get out of bed on some days because the pain was so bad, but no matter what my grandfather was always happy to see us.

Both of us expressed that we wished to take the other’s pain away. My grandparents moved from their large house in Mississippi to a rental house in Central and started building a house behind ours. I started eighth grade and both my grandfather and I were still having chronic pain. The two of us didn’t talk about it excessively, but we always asked each other how our pain was that day and said that we wished we could take on the other’s pain.

Nothing happened the way I expected. For some reason, although I was getting older, I thought that my grandfather and I would both find some miracle medicine that would take our aches and pains away. I was naïve, but I expected our medicines to eventually start working completely and then the two of us could move on with our lives. 

It hurt me more to see my grandpa in pain than it did to be in pain myself, so I was grateful that my grandfather’s pain was relieved first. I just selfishly wish it didn’t happen the way it did.

For a few days, my grandfather was ecstatic that he had no headaches. And then he passed out and was taken to the hospital. After two days, the doctors discovered that my grandfather had internal bleeding and he passed away.

I was devastated. The death of my grandfather was so unexpected. We had gotten so close and he was one of the easiest people to talk to in the world. And now he was gone. 

I struggled with his death. I knew he was in pain, but I didn’t understand why God couldn’t find another way to take his pain. I know Heaven is our eternal reward, but selfishly I wanted my grandfather to be here on Earth with me. I was conflicted because I was so glad my grandfather’s pain was finally gone, but I missed him so much and miss him still. 

And I felt that the rest of my chronic pain journey I would have to face without anyone who understood.

Two years after he died, I am still living with chronic pain, and I just had my femoral osteotomy surgery. I know my grandfather was watching over me. He gives me hope and inspiration daily. During my recovery, I have missed my grandfather especially and I wish he was here to talk to. 

He would be so happy that I finally found hope after all this time. He would be proud that I am trying my best to recover and relearn how to walk. My grandfather is my angel. I am grateful he found his peace. I just wish he was here while I am on the journey to finding mine.

Already, I have seen some success with the surgery. On the first day, lying in the bed in the hospital, my left foot was straight for the first time in my entire life. And when I stood up and took my first steps after surgery, holding onto the walker, my left foot was straight when it never had been before. My grandfather and God blessed me with a little miracle.

My grandfather isn’t here anymore, as much as I wish he was. However, he is with me, and I like to think I have some of his spirit, which inspires me to keep going and never give up. My grandfather will always be my inspiration. And my hope is that, eventually, neither of us will be in pain anymore.