November 26, 2014 - The Silent Spouse

Ron has a friend whose wife has breast cancer and recently underwent mastectomy. I've never met this couple, though I have prayed for them. Ron checked in on them a few weeks ago to see how surgery went. The response was similar to “…going well, we made it…!” Just this week we received a follow-up out of the blue that she was at that very moment being unexpectedly admitted for breast cellulitis.

My heart immediately sank as Ron told me the news. I knew almost to the letter what she was thinking and feeling. That fear of knowing you had made it through the tough surgery with flying colors only to find out you had an unexpected scary complication most likely resulting in a long course of antibiotics and potential removal of everything your breast surgeon had just finished adding. Your new breast is now defunct, damaged goods, lacking quality. It has found itself diseased with bacteria, and honestly …that just sucketh. Plain and simple. It is a bummer of bummers in breast surgery. You find yourself very close to where you started wondering if you have to do it all over again and the past many weeks falling dangerously close to wasted time.

I immediately recalled exactly what I felt, but was quite surprised to hear Ron continue the story without missing a beat to say “Sally, that was the scariest part of our journey for me.” And at that very moment the red light flickered in my head. The thing taken slightly for granted that surfaced from my subconscious. Ron, being the spouse, experienced the same journey and had his own emotions that are often missed in this process, much less supported and advocated for.  I had not really thought about the fact that there were moments he was scared, or worried, or frustrated and that he was often left to maneuver that alone. And more so that those moments of past impacted him enough to immediately want to reach out to this spouse to check on him and offer encouragement and support (which he did and it made my heart melt in love for him). I wish I could have him capture his experience on paper. I would like more insight into that, but I know this Ron and that he is very private and would struggle with finagling the thoughts to a written page. He processes in his own way and quite honestly doesn't adore the literary side of the world. But hearing his simplest of words (Sally, that was the scariest part of our journey for me) and propelling my thoughts to “our journey” (refocusing me that this wasn't my journey alone) and “for me” (bringing to my forefront that he had so much he was sorting through simultaneously as I was) now actuates me to want to advocate not only for the struggles of the woman in mastectomy, but the spouse who is just as blindly navigating something that he perceives to be scary and concerning and so many other things. He’s simply trying to get his wife through the experience intact, and I imagine that leaves him in all sorts of internal quandaries he never once utters aloud as he places her needs over his own. It is its own story. And I think that story virtually remains sadly untold.

This Ron is amazing. And I know I had the luxury of having the most incredible spouse at my side during this life event as he was selfless and supportive and kind beyond words during my emotional outbursts at crazy moments in the day. He changed bandages when I just couldn't bring myself to view the incisions and emptied drains hour after hour when I just couldn't get myself together. He missed sleep. And administered medications so I could get some rest. He cried when I cried. I realize not all men would be so stellar in such moments, but I don’t want to discredit that each spouse feels SOMETHING. The magnitude may vary, and the response will differ on a continuum from amazing to even less than stellar. But underneath the response we must realize there is a motivator. They feel something. Without realizing it, Ron highlighted that point in his concern for this husband and his wife now embracing breast cellulitis.  He very much wanted to support this man who in a flicker of a moment found himself mimicking a main character in our story. And in that role he most certainly would be feeling something.

I’m reminded that I am not a monologue, but instead one voice in a dialogue of many. There is a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a child, and very much so a spouse who is swimming (dog paddling? gasping for air?) as fast as they possibly can in the very same stream and often in silence. I don’t want to forget that. And I want to advocate for supporting the many supporters of mastectomy, particularly the male spouse who may struggle in silence.

If you find yourself in prayer today, please add this friend and her husband to your words. I imagine they need a pick me up and a miracle of healing, both emotionally and physically. Underneath the silence of the one who supports you very well may lie a soul needing a little support of its own.




  

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