A privilege, not a right

Hilda J. Born

It was snowing lightly as we headed back home. When we approached our farm, I insisted my friends drop me off and let me walk the final stretch. I wanted to revel in the pure, white countryside. Young and carefree, I floated along in my high white boots while my burgundy coat became dotted with snowflakes.

At first, the road was flat, then came a dip, another straight stretch and finally the arch at the end of the driveway. Suddenly my feet were heavy, my legs tired. I thought I couldn't walk another step. How I regretted my stubborn refusal to ride at least to the end of our long lane.

Just then, I looked beyond the arch and saw Jake, my husband, approaching. He'd put the little ones to sleep and come out to walk me home. Together we walked, sang and threw snowballs. The exhilaration of the evening made me forget my leaden feet.

The next morning, my feet were too swollen to get into my shoes. At the end of the week, with no let-up in the swelling, I squeezed into a sloppy old pair of shoes and visited the general practitioner who'd delivered the babies. He ran a blood test and recommended sensible walking shoes.

Although I got the proper shoes, I began to stumble. I was afraid I'd fall while holding the baby. For no reason at all, my joints would give out, and I would just go down. In the house, there was usually a chair nearby, so I could haul myself up, but outdoors any irregularity in surface would trip me. I knew something was wrong.

Another blood test showed a startling rise in blood sedimentation. The diagnosis was rheumatoid arthritis, and I was hospitalized. When we realized that this would be no short-term stint, my sister gave up her job and took our daughter home to live with them. Our two-year-old stayed at home with Daddy and a babysitter.

At the hospital, my doctor insisted that I move my joints as much as possible to prevent them from becoming rigid, and I faithfully followed his advice. In addition, he prescribed cortisone, but after mounting dosages I was still no better. Three weeks later, I went home since the doctor assured us there was nothing that could be done for me.

We decided to visit a specialist. Dr. Pump admitted me to a large Vancouver hospital, where every imaginable test that might give some information on why my joints were suddenly large, hot and painful was given.

Lab tests confirmed what I'd been sure of all along: I was expecting our third child. But if I was in this state during pregnancy, what would it be like later? Taking care of one child was out of the question, let alone three.

Lying in the ward, I had much time to reflect on life. During two years of teaching, I'd run down long flights of stairs hundreds of times. As a teenager, I'd played softball and football with the boys. Track was a thrill. Now it was all over.

Every movement grated. My mind and emotions rebelled violently at the physical imprisonment that I was locked into. Here I was 25 years old and an invalid. How can Jake possibly look after himself, me and three tiny children, I'd ask myself. That's what he'll be burdened with very soon--and for the rest of his life. Surely the noble thing is to ask God to let me die now before the children are scarred emotionally. Death did not scare me. I'd become a Christian when I was ten years old, and because I believed Christ had died for my sins, I was sure I'd go to heaven. But that brought other thoughts. I had tried to follow the principles of the Bible--why then was I in this state? Was I being punished for something, or didn't God care about me? Whatever the case, I didn't want to go on living.

Even a visit from a pastor friend of my husband's did not change my mind. He pointed out that pain is not punishment. Instead it can be considered a divinely permitted trial. "Your reaction to this test will determine your own future," he suggested. Another trite cliché glibly quoted by someone who is walking, I argued silently.

Yet slowly God began to work in my life. As I witnessed the daily parade of patients with every imaginable ache and abnormality, it finally dawned on me how extremely fortunate I was. God had been good to me. I had already enjoyed 25 active years and mothered two healthy children. That was something to be thankful for.

That's when I decided to be the best possible patient, wife, mother and whatever else I'd be from then on, even in my invalid state. I would let God control my life. My condition remained the same, but I was at peace.

Finally the tests were completed, and the specialist took time to explain the obvious truth. There was no further benefit to be gained by hospitalization. Even he had given up. Those forced exercises at the onset of my illness had irritated the joints beyond repair. My chances of walking again were ruined. Perhaps rest and therapy might prevent further crippling.

Fear of the future tried to block my relationship with God, but I forcefully pushed away negative thoughts. I determined to trust God for each day, for each year of my life.

Swathed in grey, wintergreen-smelling clothes to cut the medication that relieved pain, I went home to complete bedrest. Lying in bed week after week, I realized that I would not be able to prepare a layette for the coming baby, for my hands were hot and swollen. God heard my unspoken request and sent a group of women from my church to hold a baby shower.

A few weeks later, I found I could use my hands again. What a thrill that was! As my arthritis receded, I was able to sit in a wheelchair for most of the day. Could we get along without any help for me? We decided to try. Jake locked the door when he left for work each morning, and little Davey and I scooted around in my wheechair. With an automatic washer and dryer beside our new electric stove, I could handle the cooking and laundry. When Jake came home from his job as a trucking contractor, he milked the cows and spent time with us.

One November night, our second son arrived, normal and healthy.

Now I determined to walk again. "Please, God, help me to walk out of this hospital," I prayed again and again. Twelve days later, with a nurse on one side and my husband on the other, I did just that. God had answered my prayer.

Christmas was a memorable time for us. We finally returned the rented wheelchair. I had graduated to crutches. Gradually my arthritis had receded to the point where I could walk fairly well. I praised God for healing me so quickly.

Toward the end of February, we finally brought home our little daughter, who was almost a stranger to us. During the time with my sister, she had learned to walk, climb and talk a little.

In March, the final renewal date of my driver's licence came. By now, I had submitted to my frailties and felt that I would likely never drive again. When my father heard me mention this, he gently remonstrated: "You mean you're just going to sit there and let it expire? At least you could try." With that challenge before me, I practised driving the pickup, and on my first try I passed my renewal test.

Since then, I've lived a full, active life. I even had two more sons in the next ten years. Although I don't kick up my heels or wear spikes, I've cared for our five children. But I will always consider it a privilege, not a right, to be able to walk and move at will. The experience of living with the imprisonment of disease and pain and being released to personal freedom again has taught me to savour life with intensity and to trust God in everything.

Hilda J. Born is a member of Central Heights MB Church in Abbotsford, B.C.

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