Today A.'s husband H. had surgery on his neck. After two years of carrying A. up and down the stairs it seems a crack has developed in one of the bones of his vertebrae, causing him pain in his shoulder, numbness and tingling in his left arm and hand. So the plan was to graft donor bone onto one of his cervical vertebrae.
A.is now on uber-chemo, the last big gun they have. After this, there are no more bullets. She had a chemo two days ago but insisted on coming with H. this morning at 8 am, so weak she had to be in a wheel chair. She hasn't been able to eat or drink hardly anything for the last three weeks, and is constantly chilled. Huddled in the wheel chair, dressed in winter coat and cap, and bundled with warm blankets, she clutched her chemo drip bag and tried to keep its line to the port in her shoulder from getting tangled in the wheel.
H's operation was scheduled for 10 am; but 10 became 11 and 11 became 12. A. was scheduled for immunotherapy treatment at 1, so much to her disappointment and worry, I wheeled her over to the North building. They agreed to wheel her back to H. after the four hour therapy was complete, and I promised to pick her up this evening and bring her home.
Steve stopped by after confirmation expecting to visit H. after recovery but he STILL hadn't been operated on. Finally, they took him at 6:30. A. insisted she wanted to spend the night and refused our pleas to go home and rest.
If ever I were to paint a picture of the woman who annointed Jesus in Luke 7:36-50, I would use A. as my model. Before she left for her immunotherapy, she rose to embrace H., pouring what strength she had into rising and hugging her husband. But then she moved down the bed and kissed his feet, silently weeping. "She did what she could," as Mark observed, in his gospel. (14:8).
A. does not have an alabaster jar to break, only her heart. And H. doesn't have a jar to break, either; only his vertebra.
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