On my tenth day of our stay in India, I peed my pants. It happened before I could do anything about it and I wasn’t really sure what was going on. As this symptom continued into the following week, countless more were added. This was the week from hell where I spent all day wondering what God could possibly be teaching me from this. I was also convinced this was the end. That I would die slowly and softly inside my tent in a small, small Indian village. Rest assured, I’m alive and physically, doing very well. Emotionally? That would be a different story.
That hospital took something from me. I wish I could tell you exactly what it took but it all seems a little unclear. I think it has to do with dignity. As described by a teammate and squad leader, “dignity is self-respect; its holding your head high because you know who you are.” In the hospital, this head was not held high. A part of me forgot what it looked like to be me.
I forgot what it looked like to see all of Alex when looking in the mirror.
I forgot what it looked like to radiate positivity as I lay in fetal position from the pain.
I forgot what it looked like to be confident as I watched many wandering eyes stop at my window for uncomfortably long to see the American girl.
I forgot what it looked like to be genuinely cared for as random doctors and nurses flooded in to see the zoo exhibit that was me.
I forgot what it looked like to serve when all the breath escaped my lungs during coughing attacks and my tiny hands cradled the nurse’s call button.
I forgot what it looked like to have freedom as I watched fluids and antibiotic drip into my IV.
I forgot what it looked like to be bold when I sat, cried, and watched my teammate bathe me because I was too weak to do it myself.
I have never felt so invaded. Many people came into my room over the course of the three days. They came in to stare at, talk to, and take pictures with the American girl. What they don’t know is that they got to watch a lot more unfold. While they one-by-one flooded, in they deeply impacted me, and took a small piece as they walked away. Some would come back and take more, while others would make one visit deep enough. You see, I was slowly falling apart. And they had all invited themselves into my mess.
The thing about Indian hospitals is that when you start to cry, they instantly call in more nurses. The nurses hold your hand, rub your arm, and wipe your tears. I hate to be touched or shown a string of compassion when I’m crying, so crying became difficult.
I remember the second morning in the hospital my tiny veins could no longer handle the needle inside. So as the little cable running from my hand filled with my blood and the nurse prodded and poked, tears were inevitable. Before I knew it, I had seven nurses around my bed and blood all over the floor and wall. In this moment of being held together by tubes and antibiotics, I decided to go numb. The physical pain was bad enough that I could focus on it over dealing with what was mentally happening to me. I also decided that I would avoid Jesus because Jesus makes me feel and that’s the last thing I wanted to do. It was certainly not the best decision I’ve made, but it’s a decision I now get to pick up the pieces from.
So physically, I had a UTI that sneaked into my kidneys and Typhoid fever, but things are looking up. Emotionally my hands are getting tired and I am barely hanging on but what joy is it to know how tightly Jesus holds me.
While I was in the hospital my ministry host, Ming would call every day to make sure I was still breathing and say, “Just remember you’re my Alex, who’s a good girl and a fighter and you’re going to be fine.”
Here’s to that Alex…the fighter
She’s going to be fine.
I’m going to be fine.
