My Unsung Psalm

C H A P T E R 1 Surviving the Unexpected When grace was the only living reality in my life and blessings were promised, faith helped me survive the unexpected. The first thing I remember is pain. It was the spring of 2007, and I was in St. Vincent’s Hospital in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The emergency room was brightly lit with sterile metal IV hooks hanging from the paneled ceiling. I sat in a bed waiting for my symptoms to subside, to be reassured that all was well. As pain intensified and became intolerable, I knew something was wrong. I had spent three hours fighting the pain. Silent tears stained my face, evidence that I refused to ask for relief. I pushed the large white button on the pad that rested beside my left shoulder and heard a voice over the speaker. “Yes, can I help you?” “I am sorry to bother you, but would you please tell Dr. Grusen that my pain has reached a seven?” I said it reluctantly. I had intended to drive home later that day and not be admitted. Overcoming pain was a skill I had spent a lifetime mastering. If I made this decision, I couldn’t leave the emergency ward. A few minutes passed, but it felt like a decade. I tried leaning my head forward and then back, but it was of little use, and the pain was becoming more intense by the minute. I could feel stabbing pain in the wall of my carotid artery. My artery was fragile. I had a condition that caused it to dissolve from the inside out. Constant atrophy and pressure in the artery made the wall separate and bleed. It could rupture at any time, a risk I lived with 6 • My Unsung Psalm daily. The artery wasn’t healing as my physicians and I had expected. Instead, it was lengthening and causing new circulatory complications in my brain. Conquering pain became an increasingly difficult challenge. Dr. Grusen entered the room and wanted to speak with me. “I need you to reconsider letting me relieve the pain for you, Mrs. Georges,” she said. “It isn’t necessary for you to suffer. We want to make you as comfortable as possible.” She was concerned, very eager to help me, and did not ignore my complaints. She appeared to be around thirty-five, and I judged that she was new to the emergency unit. I was eleven years older than her, if I was correct. I knew she didn’t understand why I chose to live with, rather than numb, the pain. I felt more freedom with pain than the freedom that came from killing the pain. Perhaps this seemed unusual, but pain had a purpose in my life. Pain was the catalyst of change, most common to everyone, but it could bring about uncommon results. I reflected over the day’s events and thought about how the pain had begun. I was selecting a new bedspread at Younkers, a large department store, when I suddenly felt light-headed. The pain started in my right foot. I felt it tighten, but I didn’t immediately recognize the symptom. My neurologist had advised me to take ownership of my symptoms and take action, but my mind wasn’t paying attention. I was caught up in the task of buying the items on my list and arriving home before dark. Not having responded to the pain in my foot, while standing in the parking lot of Younkers, I suddenly felt a sense of urgency. But I rationalized that it was now only four in the afternoon, that it was a nice day, and I still had things to do. I carried the bedspread to my car, and then I decided to go back into the store to buy the matching pillows. I returned to the floor where I had purchased the bedspread. The place had the dreamlike quality of small hotel rooms that were ready for the busy traveler. I didn’t find pleasure in shopping; instead I enjoyed the people. I watched a mother correct her daughter for sitting in one of the bedroom suites, then laugh as both stretched out on a mattress that welcomed their arrival. I witnessed the smile they shared, and my heart smiled with them. Bending down and reaching deep into a shelf, I searched and found the pillows. When I stood up again, I felt that off-balanced swoop that comes with strong shifts in blood pressure. There wasn’t a waiting line at the counter. The saleswoman remembered me and effortlessly completed the transaction. I quickly and confidentl descended the escalator with my package and maneuvered past the other shoppers. Walking briskly past the cosmetic counter and enjoying the sweet mix of flowered perfumes, I observed a husband buying a special perfume for his wife. Then, pushing through the entry doors, I stepped out into the sunlight again. In my mind, I was crossing out the items on my list and enjoying the satisfaction of knowing another task had been completed. But before I could step off the curb, I felt the pain come on stronger. It rushed over me with such intensity that it blinded me. I nearly dropped the bag as I staggered, trying to catch my balance. I stood motionless, but inside, my veins and arteries were screaming. I closed my eyes, breathing in the pain and trying to control it with my mind. My vision cleared, and I opened my eyes, looking straight toward the place where my car was parked. That was my target. I needed to get to my car and not collapse along the way. I began to search for the keys and realized they were already in my hand. Strange, I thought. Immediately, the muscles in my right thigh and wrist began constricting. Holding the ignition key tight between my thumb and forefinger, I walked slowly, each footstep intensifying the pain that was now drumming in my head and the side of my neck. I tried to remain on a steady course to reach my car. As I approached, I pressed the remote trunk button on the keypad, and the trunk released and opened, but I found it difficult to lift the bag of pillows. I felt awkward and unable to coordinate my muscles. It took both hands to pull the lid down and close the trunk. My right arm was weak and fell limp to my side. I leaned my right side against the Avalon and slid my way along until I reached the door. With the key still hanging between my fingers, I sat down in the driver’s seat. Turning my entire body in one smooth motion on the leather, I inserted the key into the ignition. For a minute, I paused to collect my thoughts and go over the symptoms. I had not felt this level of pain in years. It was déjà vu, so similar to the day when I had chosen to drive home from the parking lot in Evergreen, Colorado, and I lost my eyesight. That day was etched in my mind forever, the kind of memory that even dreams are scared to repeat. What happened in Evergreen seven years ago could have ended in tragedy, but God was there, guiding me and guiding my family to safety. Now, lying in the emergency room at St. Vincent’s Hospital in Green Bay, I wanted to think back in time so I could find some connection to the symptoms I was experiencing. My daughter, Mary, was barely a year old back then, and my son, Max, had recently celebrated his eighth birthday. It began as an uneventful day in the new store that Wal-Mart had opened, located just off I-70 at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. Much of the new shrubbery around the parking lot was surrounded by river stone and cement curbing. This gave the new store an oddly manufactured appearance, similar to an oasis on the horizon. I could see the snowcapped peaks in the distance. I walked to my car and opened the rear passenger door with my left hand while Mary still sat saddled on my right hip. I placed her gently in the car seat, cautious about securing the overhead seat belt to the buckle in her lap. I gave her a warm smile and kissed her forehead. Her hair smelled of lavender and zwieback toast. I shut the door gently and waved. I still remember the sound of the door closing. Suddenly, I felt dizzy. I had experienced this off and on for several months, but there was a new, unfamiliar feeling added to this. My neck felt weak and stiff at the same time. Oddly, my thoughts were blurred. I was unable to focus as my chest tightened. Perhaps it was just the altitude, and I wasn’t yet acclim