Flowers for ME?

It was more than six years ago when I was admitted to the hospital with blood clots in my lungs. I was started on blood thinners and ordered to stay in bed for the first couple of days. I was unable to speak more than a few words without becoming short of breath. It's amazing how busy the mind gets when there are not words being spoken in the room. 

Up to this point in my life I had always been the caregiver. I found this role as patient to be very uncomfortable. I instructed my husband to tell our family, friends and church family that I did not want visitors. (Please, no hovering.)

My husband, John, was very worried about me but also grateful that I was in the hospital. And I was grateful that John is not the hovering type. John expresses love and gratitude by giving. He decided to express his gratitude to the hospital staff by bringing food for each shift on the floor where I was staying. In the mornings John brought bagels and croissants. In the evenings John brought pizzas. I loved it. My dear husband was taking care of "them" and therefore they were busy and NOT taking care of me. 

On day three of my hospital stay I was allowed out of bed to sit in a chair or to go to the bathroom. Also on that day I had a visitor. A friend of mine, who is a pastor, walked into my room and sat in the chair next to my bed. I said to him, "Oh you are here visiting other patients. You didn't come here just to see me." He wisely replied, "Michelle, that is not a question." I never did ask the question. My friend stayed for a little while, prayed with and for me, and departed. It was quiet again.

It wasn't too long after that when a hospital volunteer walked in my room with a bouquet of flowers ... for me. I was surprised and delighted.  I placed the flowers on a shelf in front of the window and gazed at them. A strange thing happened. A sadness welled up in me. And then anger. I didn't want to be a patient in a hospital or anywhere. I wanted to scream "please don't bring me flowers!" Tears began to flow and to drip on the bouquet. I realized that I was hovering over those flowers.

Questions for reflection and journaling:

What feelings well up in you when you think of being cared for? 

Where are you hovering? How does it feel?

Are you giving yourself enough quiet time for gazing into your feelings?

What is the question that you are not asking?