The fluorescent ceiling lights reflect off the glossy coffee table. Oprah and a 2006 Katie Holmes are staring at me offering mediocre, dated entertainment. The walls covered in a color probably named “Barely Beige” are making me feel barely alive. I glance at my phone to see if time is still passing. This waiting room looks just like the one from a week ago… which felt like the one from a month ago… which reminded me of the one from last spring. You sit in a freezing room while waiting as time passes at a glacial pace, and you’re always left with two options: watch Rachael Ray make her “Reinvented Thanksgiving Lunch” or sit inside your head. I settle with the latter.
I begin reviewing the past months in my head.
Decide to apply for the World Race (This sounds pretty cool). Get accepted for the World Race at the most romantic time (Oh, wow I might actually end up doing this). Spend my whole summer at my favorite place with my favorite people (Hey, thanks God for making this possible). Surprised at the end of camp with a whopping $12,000 check for the World Race (Woah. Alright. Sh*t, I’m really actually going to do this; Definitely clear God means for me to do this). Multiple doctor appointments (This just really is not convenient). Many, many tests (Wait, I’m confused. You made it crystal clear I’m supposed to leave in January). Weeks of physical therapy (Okaaaay I can handle this). Told I need surgery (Uhm nope, no thank you. Not gonna work, we have plans, remember?)
I used to not totally relate when people would say they were “meant to do” something. Until this. I had never been so sure that I was supposed to do something. I didn’t even know why. All I knew was that God made it very clear, and 100% possible for me to go on the World Race. I was accepted. I was funded. And then…I was told I needed surgery.
How did I go from being 100% confident and sure to sitting with Oprah, Katie Holmes, and Rachael Ray wondering if that turkey really is as good as it looks and if I’m still going to get to leave in January?
Fast forward about a month to now: I’m sitting in a toasty coffee shop listening to some bad Beach Boys cover band play over the speakers. I’ve lost a rib and a neck muscle, and in exchange gained a sweet new scar and my renewed confidence.
This has been a bit of a journey, and I’m not really sure why I’ve been taken on it. Things just got a bit stressful and unsettling. And then everything was okay again. I don’t spend anymore time in waiting rooms, and my incision is healing quite nicely. It’s not like God had my rib removed to pull a good old fashioned Genesis move, and make me a boyfriend from it (I’m still not against the idea though). I didn’t even have some sort of epiphany while my morphine dripped.
I’ll let you know when it all clicks though, when I reach that moment where I look back at this time and think “so THAT’S what You were doing”. But until then, all I know is my remaining 23 ribs and I will be leaving to travel the world in January to grow into who I am meant to be, and that sounds good to me. And I just have this feeling Rachael, Katie, and Oprah would agree.
