End of a Wonderful Sabbatical...

The past three months was one of the nicest periods of my life, other than holidays and long haul backpacking trips. These three months, although rather turbulent at first, began to quieten down as the days and the weeks progressed. These weeks made up the time of convalescence, following a major cardiac operation back in early February. The procedure was having a new tissue aortic valve replacement, as the one I was born with had a problem with regurgitation - that means that instead of the valve slamming shut and totally preventing the blood flowing back into the heart cavity, the aortic valve kept failing to shut properly, allowing the blood to seep back into the left ventricle. Eventually, my heart was signalling to me that it has had enough, as the problem was known to be very long term, with the likelihood of having been born with the condition.

Such signals consisting of waking up in the middle of the night, finding myself literally gasping for air, like an athlete who had just finished a race. Alongside this gasping, there was a sense of drowning, caused by the presence of fluid in my lungs, which was also the cause of my chest rumbling while breathing. Night after night this went on until my wife, alarmed at the phenomenon, begged me to visit the G.P. I had to overcome my masculine pride as I submitted my symptoms to this highly educated female professional, young enough to be my daughter at least. But it wasn't long, after a series of tests, that valve regurgitation was diagnosed as the bottom cause of the symptoms, and I was in need of open heart surgery.

The operation itself came early February. For details of the procedure and of the days which followed, click on to one  of my older blogs, In the Darkness, posted February 14th, 2015. But in the weeks to follow after discharge, I was told to rest for three months by the medical team, as my job as a domestic window cleaner involved lifting heavy ladders. And here is the rub. Had my occupation consisted of office or clerical activity, chances that I could have returned to work only after a month of convalescence, maybe six weeks at the most. I had enough financial reserves to have seen through such a short period of rest. But a duration of three months was rather different. So we (my wife and I) decided on a temporary State handout to help us through the period. The mountain of form filling, attending interviews, and receiving unexpected mail asking for more details, or to settle a query, were humiliating enough to make us feel like criminals, which was rather upsetting, as well as ironic, when considering that our politicians had their snouts in the trough where State-funded Expense Allowances were concerned. On the other hand, when even our church elders offered some financial help in the beginning, we felt right to turn this down in favour of State benefits. Eventually, after the first month, the incoming benefits started to arrive at last.

There were hardly any hiccups after this, and I began to see this time of rest as more of a sabbatical rather than a period of post-op convalescence. There remained, however some concerns. One is that, while before the procedure, I was told by the Consultant that the op was the "be all to end all" concerning symptoms, like one of my clients, older than me, who had exactly the same procedure for the same cardiac problem, yet his cheerful disposition testifying that he is no longer on medication. With me, when I complained of continuous shortness of breath, I had a electrocardiograph and an X-ray, which confirmed an irregular heartbeat, which means that I have to be on medication, including Warfarin, (an anticoagulant) for life.  And then my nearest and dearest, who is also on medication. The sabbatical has allowed me to take her to hospital for an appointment, renew her medical prescriptions, as well as having to take her to her G.P. without all of this to have eaten away into my working hours. In short, I was free to nurse her to the full.

With all that aside, I'm not hesitant to admit that I have thoroughly enjoyed the long respite, and I can't help feeling sad over the thought that this is the final weekend before I return to work on Monday (i.e. May 18th), together with the long-range forecast predicting cool, lousy weather as well. Let's face it, there is something about not having to get up early each morning to face the day. But on the other hand, bone idleness has always been far from my liking. During the earlier days of the sabbatical, I went out on walks, starting with short distances, then increasing them each day, as exactly instructed by the Physician. So every day began with a long walk. Then by the afternoon, I set my mind upon one of those challenging 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzles, the one I had to piece together without the master picture on the lid, because there wasn't one. Then quite a considerable time browsing the Internet.

But way above all this, is having the time to take my wife out in her wheelchair. Being lame rather than totally immobile, we were able to get about without too much hassle. One including a walk along the river Thames passing through some woods. The weather was sunshine and warm. Being together in such a lovely environment was as close to paradise as we could get. And I guess that's the main gist of such sabbaticals - for us to spend time together on a daily basis over a period of prolonged time rather than just on weekends and comparatively short holidays. It seems to have added extra goodness into our marriage.

And sabbaticals were far from being unbiblical. On the contrary, the regular sabbatical was part of Old Testament law delivered to Israel by God himself through Moses. In Leviticus 25:1-7, God instructs Moses to tell the whole nation of Israel that on every seventh year, every landowner must allow his fields to rest from growing of any crops. This includes ploughing of the ground, as well as sowing, reaping, and harvesting. As Israel was mostly agricultural, this means that every landowning family must cease from working his fields of one whole year out of every seven years. Before the operation, I have often wondered what all this means to the household. Would they get crushingly bored or frustrated over twelve months of enforced idleness? After all, day trips to the beach was unknown to them, let alone international travel. Neither did they have anything remotely like all the commodities we take for granted - TV's, music centres, computers, even sports equipment - all were unknown.

But God must have known the human psyche enough to usher in such a law without it being detrimental to any of the families. In fact, musical instruments were known, along with the ability to read, write, and possibly with a reasonable knowledge of math. In addition to the land enjoying a full years rest, it was most likely that God also intended rest and recreation in the home. Just as I have found ways to avoid boredom during those three months in convalescence, so it was more than likely that the ancient Israeli farmer took that year as a time of rest, recreation, and rejoicing.

The fact that by the time Israel had become a kingdom with King Saul being the first monarch, the practice of the seventh year sabbatical was all but abandoned and forgotten, most likely due to a lack of faith in God's provisions. By the time King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon had sacked Jerusalem in 586 BC, there had been 490 years of kingdom rule where the seventh year of sabbatical rest was never observed across Israel, and therefore the land owed God seventy years of sabbatical rest, hence the seventy year Exile which the King of Babylon unwittingly ushered in.

Rather than getting into deep Bible study here, it is worth mentioning that taking a sabbatical sometime during one's working life is psychologically healthy, endorsed by God himself, and I believe that to this day, every working family, couple, or single person should take a sabbatical. Yes, I'm aware that you as a reader me throw up your arms in horror and ask, "What about our finances, our bills to pay, our food and drink, and our general welfare?"

I bet those early Israelites must have gasped the very same kind of question. "How then are we going to eat? Or trade our goods if we don't plough, sow, and reap our harvest?" But that's where their trust in God comes in. If he is not able to meet their needs, surely he wouldn't have passed the law in the first place. As King David said to the two criminals who thought they were doing him a favour, he declared:
As surely as the Lord lives, who has delivered me out of all trouble...2 Samuel 4:9.

This was not my first sabbatical. Back in 1997, I took eleven weeks off work to do a little travelling, and flew to Singapore, Australia, and California. And I can declare, without an iota of exaggeration, that not only God watched over my window cleaning business as it lay fallow, which is to say, no loss of clients - but my bank accounts remained stable, my apartment wasn't broken into, and while I was away, I remained healthy and free from any illness, I didn't come to any harm, neither was I mugged or robbed, and actually returned home with some change, and remained free of debt, except for a credit card payment for a bed at a hostel, and that was due to shortsightedness on my part when the Queen's birthday meant a bank holiday in Australia, and I had forgotten to cash a traveller's cheque.

But I can testify of God's care throughout the time I was not at work, and this post-op convalescence was no different. True enough, it was very difficult to have gotten the Benefits going, but I had never ran low on finance, neither had we gone hungry, or ran up debts. Rather, under God's loving care, we both enjoyed being together, and as I return to work on Monday, so God's loving care will go on as long as we live. 

In the Darkness...

As I sat at a table with a Cappuccino Grande placed in front of me, the only decent sized china mug among tall paper cups adorning other tables around me, I sat alone and watched a young daughter throwing tantrums as her mother refused to give her the treat "until we get home" -while her younger brother, not much older than two years and with lovely golden blond hair, came right up close to me, and gazed up at the gentleman sitting about four to five feet away, to whom he fixed his curious stare. Instantly his mother beckoned him over, and presently the family, with the daughter still in tears, moved on.

Sipping coffee at Starbucks was a tonic in physical, mental and spiritual well-being. The sound of daily hustle and bustle within had reminded me that I'm back in the real world once again, watching living people going about their business, with the aromatic atmosphere of a coffee bar enhancing the experience. It was a contrast to within the last twelve days when two of my friends took my wife and myself to Harefield Hospital, just outside Greater London, to register for an open heart operation which would take place the following morning. After registration and a ward bed assigned, the three of us, (the fourth who brought us, already on his way home) made our way to settle in a ground floor room at Parkwood House, an astonishing three to four hundred metre walk from the hospital itself, but still within its grounds. Here I made sure that both my wife, who has mobility limitations, and our friend who would become her carer, were both settled in to be close to me during the procedure.

Being given a sedative pill shortly before being transferred from bed to gurney helped me stay calm as I was then wheeled from ward to theatre. Due to another patient in front of me not being quite ready to move, we were held up in a "traffic jam" within the narrow curved corridor, and I watched the snow fall gently outside, and perhaps feeling thankful that it was not just another work day. What seemed like eternity, but in reality about two to three minutes, the gurney in front of mine started to move, and mine was pushed behind it, with Alex and Sharon keeping up with the porters. After a fairly long walk, including a corridor built entirely of glass and fully capable of keeping meat frozen solid for a week or two, we halted in front of the theatre doors, where I looked upon both Alex and Sharon as I was wheeled in, as they couldn't proceed any further. Alex looked into my eyes, and I into hers, and that was it. After being asked a series of identity questions, I was led into a room which within the anaesthetist jabbed a couple of needles into the back of my right hand.

What seemed like just a few minutes later I became conscious of lying down in complete darkness and I clearly heard the voice of my wife Alex calling out:

I love you, I love you, I love you.

With much effort, I replied, I love you too.

Then the voice spoke again:

He loves me! See, he loves me!

Although I was in complete darkness, somehow I sensed the operation was over, and I felt an overwhelming peace come over me. When I did wake up and became fully conscious, I found myself staring at a clock over the door which read three minutes past midnight, in the Intensive Care Unit. I did not take long to fall back to sleep again.

I was out for the count for a solid fifteen hours, of which the first six I was in the theatre. The conversation between Alex and myself took place sometime between four and five o'clock p.m. - seven to eight hours after becoming unconscious, yet to me it seemed just a few minutes since of my awareness in the presence of the anaesthitist. 

But as for all the staff at the National Health Service, I had nothing but praise for all of them. In the High Dependency Unit there was this elderly patient who was constantly moaning, refusing to have his oxygen mask over his face, and the ward staff constantly persuading him to wear it. This went on into the small hours, until about 4 a.m. I called the head nurse to my bed and loudly whispered,

That patient is p*****g me off!

How she can remain calm and fully contained amazed me. Sure enough, she must have come across scores of elderly patients who had similar attitudes, yet what she could do, I couldn't. As she carried on persuading him to wear the mask and also explaining that he's keeping other people awake as well, I thought entered my mind - You are not walking in the Holy Spirit.

I considered this a serious matter, and I prayed for control by the Spirit of Christ. This didn't solve the problem in the ward, but it did change my attitude. During breakfast, the surgeons who performed the operation arrived at my bed to check my recovery progress. When they seemed satisfied, I replied my thanks to them for such a professional job from such wonderful men. I then reached out to shake his hand warmly. His appreciative look seem to indicate to me that he wished all patients took on such a grateful attitude instead of grumbling thanklessly over their condition as the one whose bed was next to mine did all night, whom I did approach to say good morning, only to be greeted by a grunt.

But by abiding by the Holy Spirit seemed to have made a particular impact on the catering staff, as well as on other nurses. This fellow, who looked to be from the Mediterranean, looked fed up as he conveyed the meal trolley from the kitchen to the wards. He was fully committed to the task, but what seemed to bother him was the large amount of food being thrown to waste. I am aware that hospital food here in the UK has a bad reputation, enough to appear in the national media, but here at Harefield Hospital, the food was good, as if extra effort was put into the culinary work for greater appeal to us patients. I felt nothing about cleaning the soup bowl and main course plate - it had always been my normal way of life. But what took several days to dawn on me was that this waiter appreciated my enjoyment of the food. By the time his weekly shift rota ended, he singled me out in the ward, beaming from ear to ear, and shook my hand before he left.

Just by showing simple appreciation and respect for such hard working, committed staff, seems to be taken to heart, and they show this by approaching me with a warm, smiling attitude,  the result of abiding in the power of the Holy Spirit. Some patients believe that they have their rights - having paid into the national purse all throughout their lives - to demand beck and call on the staff without realising that each nurse has to see to all the patients in the ward, with some having more needs than others.

At the Discharge Ward, where I spent the last three days, I overheard a conversation taking place between a night nurse and a nearby patient. According to this staff member, the cost for just one night spent as an in-patient, with just the nurse to look after him, costs the N.H.S. £450. And that does not include medicine, food, or treatment. I also overheard that medicine costs £13 per item. For example, two Paracetamol pills, one Aspirin, one Ramipril pill, one Ranitidine pill, one Furosemide pill and one Brisopolol pill, would add up to £78 for two to three separate doses, one in the morning, one at lunchtime, and again in the evening. Now if multiplied by seven nights, the cost would be approximately £3,700. Now add the cost of the procedure itself, and the cost would jump into tens of thousand of pounds. This is a reality which no one can claim "patient's rights" to the point of perceiving the nurse as constantly under beck and call. Little wonder that by submitting to the Holy Spirit has made the nurses in our ward feel more worthy of their call, with one of them, an Afro-Caribbean, pampering around me as if I was a celebrity shortly before going home.

My recent experience in hospital was much more than a place to treat an illness. Rather it was a major learning curve in the simple principle of showing love and appreciation to others committed to care. And believe me, they do a very good job, a reflection of Jesus Christ himself, who taught his disciples to heal the sick, among other works of love. While here on earth, he constantly radiated love to all who crossed his path. Great crowds followed, parents brought their children to be blessed, various women burdened with sin and rejected by society found their liberation in him. Some even traversed over long distances in searching for him. He never turned anybody away, but cried out in the Temple precinct that if anyone thirsts, let him come to him, and he will be satisfied. Little wonder that many hospitals bear the name of one of Jesus' disciples, such as St Thomas, St James, and St Bartholomew Hospitals. 

Oddly enough, only the religious hated him. And it is a sad, sad fact that over the centuries, churches had crossed swords with each other in theological debates, therefore keeping up the hatred these religious people had against Jesus. Yes, I agree that correct doctrine is essential for the health of the church. Its creeds should be regularly examined and preached. Creeds such as the Trinity, salvation by faith, and the Bible as the authoritative Word of God are essential truths upon every church must rest on these foundations. But if as a hospital patient, if I tried to argue whether salvation can be lost or not, how impressed would the staff had been? Or instead of shaking the surgeon's hand and congratulated him for his fine work, insisted that there will be a Millennium. Would he had been impressed? (I believe he was a Muslim) Or would he had hastened my discharge instead?

If only the churches had preached the Gospel mixed with the love of Christ to the world over the centuries, instead of engaging in in-fighting, would we have a better society than the one we live in now? Perhaps many believers can learn a thing or two from these dedicated medical staff. Maybe if we did, who knows, the N.H.S. may not come to such a high demand as it is today.