Dark Night of the Soul (and Arm)

It was exactly a week ago that it happened. It was 10pm and the house was full. My wife was in the kitchen, elder son on his computer, younger son entertaining six house guests, friends from university who were preparing to go out nightclubbing.

I was in the garage, and, as I turned to leave, I slipped on something, my feet shot out from under me and I fell backwards, unconsciously using my arms to break my fall. The resulting pain in my right elbow and arm was absolutely excruciating.

My immediate reaction was an urgent prayer; nothing profound, just a desperate "Lord help me!" that seemingly went unanswered. Then a much louder appeal that brought my wife running. She and elder son helped me to bed but, after 30 minutes of ice packs, the pain had hardly reduced so we crept out of the house, so as not to alarm the readying night-clubbers, and headed to the hospital’s Accident & Emergency Department.

There were about 15 patients waiting to be seen. Surprisingly for a Friday night, there were no argumentative drunks - yes, I’ve been to A&E on a weekend evening before. There was a group of six young girls in bathrobes - a hen party perhaps? – and they were all laughing uproariously, sharing  jokes and  miming being sick. For a moment, I wished that I could share whatever liquid or chemical had given them that intense and happy spirit.

For my part, the pain was coming in waves, it was a struggle not to moan or hunch over and I looked up hopefully each time a door opened or the tannoy announced the next patient. I felt down and, before I knew it, my occasional silent prayer had morphed into a bitter remonstration.  

‘I know you are here. So why aren’t You looking after me? Have I upset You? What have I done to deserve this? Is my daily prayer not long enough?  Or is regular weekly Mass and occasional daily ones insufficient? I thought there might be some credit for the regular confessions, the alms, pilgrimages, works of mercy....isn't that enough? What do I lack?’

After one hour and forty-five minutes I saw the duty doctor, who suspected that I had broken bones. In another hour I was being X-Rayed.

It was a very bad fracture; the two bones that go from the elbow to the wrist were both broken. Worse, the elbow bone itself was shattered into five or six pieces.

 

plastered and enjoying Dr. Morphine

Additional X-Rays, a scaffolding of plaster of Paris around the limb, medication courtesy of Dr Morphine – and suddenly I had recovered my usual good humour and was back to making small jokes. Then two porters pushed my bed along endless corridors, via lifts and even into the open air between buildings until we arrived at my destination, Grant's Ward in the main building of this 186-years-old hospital.

Next day, after lunch (for surgery staff only, obviously patients are on NBM – Nil By Mouth) came the three-hour operation with the insertion of a metal plate, screws and wires to try and repair the elbow. The anaesthetic was effective, and I woke to a completely numb arm. Another 24 hours later, I was discharged to recuperate at home.

This unfaithful God thing really upset me. For the first time in many years I’d missed my nightly Rosary while in A&E. At home, I was still in pain but the painkillers took the edge off. Although I had to sit (and try and sleep) propped up on cushions in bed, it was infinitely more comfortable than being in hospital; super service from the wife, kindly ribbing by the sons, Sky tv, old photography magazines, internet access...what more could one ask for?

Of course I resumed the Rosary and the other nightly prayers. Already I was regretting the momentary loss of trust, the sudden transformation of love and service into a commercial act.  I knew He would take His time. And He did. The answers when they came were very quiet, seeping into my (more-receptive) consciousness over several days.

‘I was always with you, even during the worst bits. There is no relationship between your actions and My father’s will, which is a mystery. Aim to be perfect, as My father is, that’s the only benchmark. And remember that I love you without qualification - especially when you fall. Trust Me, reflect My love and think on the lessons you have learned.’

True, there were so many examples of love in action...the kind manner of professional nurses like Jim on Grant Ward that went far beyond mere duty, the thoughtful and caring shepherding by the porters; the patients desperate for a little conversation – or even someone to listen to them – and the other patients who met that need, despite their own pain and worries; how one young patient helped an elderly one to the toilet, fussing over him despite being recently out of surgery himself; how time stands still when you desperately want it to move on, and the kindly enquiry from a neighbouring bed that suddenly unglues time...

He said more but when your memory is a little woozy and you are single-finger typing with the ‘wrong’ hand, well, there has to be a limit.

Even my nightly reading of extracts from Saint Theresa of Calcutta had something to say to me. Last night she didn’t pull any punches: ‘Bitterness and pride are twin sisters – moodiness goes with them...Do not go to the altar of God with them in your heart. Go with a pure heart. A pure heart will see God.’

Seven days later, things are much improved. I can wiggle the fingers of my damaged right arm but not hold or use a pen. Going to the bathroom, eating and drinking, shaving, showering, getting dressed are all a bit of a trial.

But things are slowly improving...and I'm talking to Him again, not at Him.