I listened to K-Love while mowing the lawn this morning. The DJs discussed the toll watching too much news takes on our mental health. One of the DJs admitted that all the scrolling, watching, and listening to news about World War III doomsday predictions was making him sick.

Part of my post-pandemic PTSD is a heightened sensitivity to media hysteria. Too much gossip and misinformation stirs up feelings of anxiety, anger, helplessness, hopelessness, anger (did I already say that?), and, oh yea, anger. I feel my chest tighten and my breathing restrict.

I got off Facebook, stopped watching any of the big 3 (Fox, CNN, MSNBC – and I used to love watching Fox and Friends in the morning as I got ready for work), and I stay clear of State of the Union addresses and presidential special announcements.

I am not interested in so-called news casters or expert guest opinions. I certainly have no faith in anything that comes out of a political leader’s mouth, especially our current president. Regardless of whether or not I voted for him or what I think of him as a president, his extreme rhetoric makes him sound like either a narcissist or a pathological liar, or both. Not that many presidents are any different, but… I digress. The point is that I care nothing about politically biased opinions or empty promises. Words in today’s political arena mean absolutely nothing. The only things I believe are the facts, not what they say, but what they do or don’t do.

Post-pandemic, I no longer trust in words alone.

That is not to say that I bury my head in the ground. I do like to stay up to date with what is going on in the world, but as Joe Friday said on Dragnet, “Just the facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.”

I like CBS Morning’s Eye Opener, “your world in 90 seconds” segment. I like watching the first few minutes of any news broadcast when the facts are given, before the talking heads have their say. I watch full episodes of my local news. My local newscasters do not offer their unsolicited opinions – just the facts.

Case in point, last night’s news announced Trump’s claim of a “complete and total cease fire.” I hoped and prayed he was telling the whole truth, but decided to go to bed and wait and see what really happened in the morning. After all, that is a bold claim to make for such a tenuous situation. And, of course, as we could have predicted, both sides continue to misbehave. Hope remains, though, but it was not as swift and complete and total as empty promises would have us believe.

This early morning rabbit trail of thoughts got me to thinking again of why none of the rumors or potential realities frighten me. Possibly for the reasons I mentioned in my last post. Possibly because I am not a news over-consumer. Maybe it is as my friend said about herself. Her prayer life has changed since 9/11. She credits her spiritual maturity and deeper relationship with God for keeping her fearless during this uncertain season.

As I started driving to work, singing the Colton Dixon song, Up + Up, that had been replaying in my head all morning, it hit me. My unconcern comes from a relatively recent encounter I had right here in the chapel of my hospital.

My transplant patients often spend up to three months in the hospital. Most of that time is spent waiting for a donor. I get to know some of the patients pretty well during that time. Sometimes, I bond with a patient and/or their family.

I developed a bond with a patient waiting for a heart. He enjoyed my visits and prayers. He was one of the most peaceful, calm, and tranquil guys I had ever met. He never got discouraged or developed cabin fever from being cooped up inside in a small room for so long. He even had to wait longer than some others for a transplant because of other health complications.

The day finally came, though. They told him they found a match. I visited him and his mom to celebrate with them. The joy on his face was incredible. This usually stoic man showed such profound – yet cautious – hope. He knew well that anything could happen to postpone the surgery. Still, we rejoiced together.
I stopped by the next day to check in on him and see if he was ready. It is usually at this time that patients begin to really contemplate what it means to get a heart. Someone has to die so they can live. I wanted to be sure to be there to continue to celebrate with him, but also to help him talk through any thoughts or emotions he may be having.

As I got closer to his room, I noticed he was laying in bed – unusual for him this time of day – but there was no precaution signs on his door – meaning no surgery yet. I at first assumed that he may be getting prepared for surgery. However, one look at him and I knew something was terribly wrong.

He had drool coming out of the side of his mouth, and he looked frightened. He told me he had a stroke the night before. The stroke affected his eyesight. The brain bleed caused him to act out, hallucinate, and cry like a child. His medical team told me that, because of the stroke, not only was the transplant cancelled, but he would likely die within the next 48 hours.

I held it together long enough to spend time with him and to comfort his care team, who were also grieving and angry. Only hours away from transplant, and now this? They talked through a lot of “what if” scenarios, feeling lost and hopeless.

When I finally escaped, I went to the chapel, knowing I had nothing left to give anyone else. I, too, was hurting and angry.

Luckily, I was alone in the chapel. Sitting in the back row, I took off my glasses and cried in anger at God. How could he? What possible good could it serve to give him – to give us – this hope only to take it away in such a cruel way? It’s not fair. Being alone in the chapel, I felt comfortable crying and talking out loud to God. I was mad at him and he needed to know it. I needed to get it all out if I had any hope of being a chaplain for any other patients the rest of the day. After all, he was the first patient I went to see and I still had a whole day ahead of me.

Before I left, I stopped at a picture on the wall just outside of the chapel. It depicts Jesus with his sheep and has my favorite scripture verse written:

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” Exodus 14:14.

I stood before that picture as I sometimes do when I need an emotional break, took a few deep breaths, and repeated the words.

Just then, I felt His arms wrap around me in a gentle bear hug. He whispered in my ear, “I’ve got this, Renee. I am fighting for _____. You need only be still.”

And just like that, my anger and helplessness and hopelessness vanished.

He never told me how he was fighting for ____ or what the outcome would be, but I was certain that, no matter what happened, it would be okay. My patient would be okay.

The next morning, on my way home from the gym, I was beginning to feel overwhelmed and sad again. Then, I heard a new song called Flowers by Samantha Ebert. I wept, remembering the promise Jesus gave me the day before.

When I arrived at work later that morning, I made ____ my first stop. I shared Exodus 14:14, and I played this song for him. He listened with his eyes closed and smiled for the first time since before the stroke. He heard the hope for him in those words.

I visited him almost every day for two weeks, expecting him to die. That’s how long the medical team gave him before reassessing whether or not his body could handle the trauma of a transplant surgery.

We call our patient our miracle. He ended up being with us twice as long as most patients, but he got his new heart and was discharged a few weeks ago.

Ever since the moment I stood in front of that picture, I no longer feel the same sense of responsibility. I still get attached and invested in my patients, but their outcomes are no longer my burden to carry.

That same peace followed me in other parts of my life outside of the hospital. Exodus 14:14 is no longer something I simply like and believe in my head. It is now real and living in my heart.

That day, standing in front of that picture, I let go of my need to be in control and to be in the know about every situation, and it has made all the difference.