Anxiety

March 27, 2025

Day Three in the Hospital

It’s now March 27—my third day here in the hospital. I woke up early this morning with a strange sensation on the left side of my face. At first, I thought it was numbness. I called the nurse to check, and she said it appeared swollen. My nose has been congested, so it’s possible the feeling of heaviness is simply from sinus pressure. Still, it unsettled me. I long to have this angiogram dressing removed—it’s become uncomfortable and makes it hard to rest fully in bed.

When the doctor comes, I plan to ask for two things. First, I’d like them to prescribe a mild anxiety medication—something low-level, just enough to help calm me. I’ve noticed that anxiety has crept in more easily since this stroke, and I fear it will intensify once I’m home, especially alone.

But I also know I’m not truly alone. God is with me—always. This moment of contemplation, right now, is my lifeline. I’m talking to God, not just journaling. The Holy Spirit is here with me. And that knowledge—more than any medication—is my greatest comfort. I’m thankful beyond words.

I believe discharge is near. Most of the team seems to have cleared me, except for this lingering facial issue. Still, the idea of going home stirs up anxiety. I’m doing my best to stay positive and to trust in the Lord. Everything that needed to be done has been done. Requesting more tests—like the second MRI I hoped for—may not be granted, and I need to accept that.

What I keep returning to is this thought: It would be beautiful to be in the company of someone I love—and who loves me back. Like so many ordinary people have. Companionship in the simplest form. But I’m 62, and single. That ship has likely sailed. Yet, I’m not bitter. I am deeply grateful that the Lord is with me. It’s more than just companionship—it’s divine presence. He is beside me, in me, around me. And the message I keep receiving from Him is clear: Be brave.

And brave I must be. This is the newest chapter in a long book of challenges I’ve faced. Aging is hard. Facing it alone is harder. But despite the odds stacked against me, I’ve never truly been alone. The Lord has taken ownership of my life again and again. He’s covered me in His mercy and love, and I believe He will do so once more. Whether I go home or to a nursing facility, there is rest waiting for me. Peace. A slowing down. And if I do end up in a nursing home, perhaps that setting would suit my temperament—quiet, structured, safe. Nothing to fear. I’ve faced much harder things.

If I go home, I can finally settle in bed without pressure, read my favorite books, write the stories I’ve always meant to tell. Yes, there is still hope.

This is what I treasure about my contemplative moments with God—there is always a way forward, always a light. No despair can survive long in His presence. As much as my mind might wander into the dark corners, I choose to stay in the light, in the hope.

Still, I admit the waiting is difficult. The discharge talk came earlier, but I’ve heard no updates since. The neurologists have mostly cleared me. I left a message for my primary care doctor and spoke with my sister about insurance, Social Security, all the logistics. I’m usually so consumed by those practical worries—expenses, planning—but right now, I feel oddly indifferent. Facing mortality puts everything into perspective.

All the things that used to keep me up at night—security, finances, health plans, dreams, exercise routines, social media posts, the causes I stood for, the people I helped, the family I supported, the books I wanted to write—all of them suddenly feel distant. Faded. They were once my whole world. Now, they feel like scenes from a life I no longer need to keep rehearsing.

Time has washed them gently away. Like trees I walked past each morning, the gardens I admired, the birds I photographed, the conversations I thought would last forever. All of them are being placed gently into their proper order in the great, eternal timeline of God. And somehow, I feel at peace.

I’m not grieving these things. I’m just grateful I was there. I lived them. I witnessed them. I was part of the wheel of time. And now, the Lord is telling me to stop—to pause this frantic quest for “someday.”

That someday has always been here. I just never saw it.
It’s like the story of a mother who devoted her life to her children—so much so that she forgot to love herself. She collapsed only when there was nothing left to give. And while her children loved her dearly, she had no love left for herself. That is me. I held on to roles and tasks long past their purpose. I wore them like armor, thinking they would save me.

But God has finally stomped His staff to the ground and said, clearly:

Stop.

This is no longer a disruption. It is an invitation.

A new kind of life awaits me now. A life where each day is a blessed day, walking in the garden of God. I don’t need to wake up early to force a routine of meditation or exercise. My whole life now becomes a quiet, living meditation. I don’t need to rush to beat the clock, or go out walking before work, or squeeze in moments of peace. I am free.

And in that freedom, I hear God again:
Be still.

Enjoy the quiet work you truly love.

Not for approval, not for performance.

Just for the joy of being alive.

Just for being you.

No timer.

No audience.

No applause.

Just me and my Lord.

That’s it. That’s all that remains. And it is more than enough.
2025-04-01 13:48:48
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