The Waiting Room
The door closed behind me, and the hum of the hospital swallowed me whole. My father’s smile, the one that had been a comfort to me, was now just a memory behind a wall I couldn’t reach. Tears raced down my cheek as I walked away, hearing the steady beep of machines and the hurried footsteps of doctors. I tried to hold it together and breathe.
You don’t hear the words brain surgery often, and even less so when it’s your own father lying on the table.
I wanted to stay—to hold his hand, to tell him one more time that I loved him—but there was nothing left to say. He was ready and it was time. For six hours, my mother and I sat waiting, the weight of every possible outcome pressing down on us like a storm cloud. We prayed and waited and prayed some more, clinging to hope as tightly as we could.
The surgery was necessary. An acoustic neuroma, a non-cancerous tumor, had taken residence behind his right eardrum. As it grew, it began pressing against his brain, threatening to steal more than just his hearing. Post-surgery risks hovered like shadows: paralysis on one side of his face, the potential inability to move his tongue or close his eye, and the possibility of relearning how to walk and talk. It felt overwhelming.
When the door shut, and my father disappeared behind it, I felt the weight of helplessness settle deep into my chest. For six hours, my mother and I sat together, clinging to prayer, hope, and each other.
And then, the call came.
The surgeon’s voice was clear and confident: “The tumor is gone. The surgery went beautifully.”
In that moment, I almost collapsed under the weight of gratitude. God’s presence had been woven into the process, from the skilled hands of the surgeons to the prayers of loved ones. Walking into the recovery room to see my father’s groggy, but familiar smile felt like a gift—a tangible reminder of God’s goodness. I had never been happier to see a smile.
But the journey wasn’t over.
The next day, we were told to brace ourselves. The first 24 hours after surgery are the hardest. Nausea, dizziness, and immense pain were expected. Seeing my father struggle—his body reeling from what it had endured—was heart-wrenching.
All I wanted was to take the pain for him.
I knew he was in the best hands at the best facility. I knew the surgery had gone beyond our prayers. I even knew God was with us every step of the way. But knowing doesn’t always shield the heart from breaking. Watching someone you love endure pain stirs a deep longing to fix, to carry, to make things easier for them.
I watched him flinch as another wave of dizziness hit, and the weight of helplessness returned. That’s when the surgeon came in, bringing an unexpected perspective.
“This is normal,” he reassured us. “the dizziness and pain are part of healing. If you can gently push through—walk a little, do the eye exercises the therapist gave you—you’ll help your brain recalibrate faster. The brain is most malleable right after this surgery.”
The words struck me. Pain wasn’t just an unfortunate byproduct of surgery; it was a necessary part of the healing process. Without the struggle of walking through dizziness and discomfort, his brain wouldn’t learn how to compensate for the missing vestibular nerve.
God's Design in Healing
Inside each of us is an intricate system designed by the Creator Himself. The vestibular nerve, nestled within the ear, helps our brains process balance and motion. (Honestly, learning about this all makes me appreciate God and his attention to detail for our bodies all the more) To remove the tumor, the surgeons had to sever this nerve. But God, in His wisdom, created the human brain with an incredible capacity to adapt. The opposite vestibular nerve (in my dad’s left ear in this case) can take over, teaching the brain to compensate for what’s lost.
But that process isn’t instant, nor is it easy.
As my father took one tentative step after another, I saw determination on his face. He rested when he needed to, but he didn’t give up. By the second day, he was walking further, even venturing outside the hospital. The pain and discomfort, though unwanted, were part of the healing.
And in that quiet moment of reflection, God sat me down for a lesson.
The Gift in the Struggle
How often do we, like me in that hospital room, long to take away someone’s pain—or our own? We pray for ease, for quick solutions, for the absence of discomfort. But without the struggle, without walking through the “dizziness,” we don’t grow.
The pain we experience isn’t without purpose. God, in His sovereignty, allows it to shape us, teach us, and equip us for what lies ahead.
James 1:2-4 reminds us:
Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.
Pain, discomfort, and struggle refine us. They stretch us in ways that ease never could. My father’s healing journey is a tangible picture of this truth. The dizziness and pain weren’t signs of failure; they were markers of progress. And by leaning into the discomfort—taking those steps, doing the exercises—he allowed his brain to adapt, to become stronger, and to find balance again.
In the same way, God calls us to trust Him in the midst of our trials. He doesn’t promise a life free of hardship, but He does promise to use it for our good (Romans 8:28).
Walking Through the Pain
As I watched my father push through the hardest parts of his recovery, I saw echoes of God’s grace. Healing doesn’t always come in the way we expect. Sometimes it’s slow, requiring patience and perseverance. Sometimes it comes through pain, teaching us lessons we couldn’t learn any other way.
I think about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, knowing the suffering that awaited Him. He didn’t shy away from the pain; He embraced it, trusting that God’s plan was greater than the temporary agony. And because of His willingness to endure, we now have eternal life.
Our struggles, though different, offer us the same opportunity to grow in trust, faith, and resilience.
Today, my father’s recovery continues to amaze me, the doctors, and nurses. Every step he takes, every smile he gives, is a testament to God’s faithfulness. And as I reflect on the experience, I’m reminded that the moments of discomfort—both his and mine—were not wasted.
God is a master of redemption. He uses our pain, not to harm us, but to transform us. And while I may never stop wishing I could take away the pain from those I love, I now see it differently. Pain isn’t the end of the story; it’s often the beginning of something new.
So if you find yourself in a season of struggle, remember this: God is with you, teaching you, shaping you, and walking alongside you. And as hard as it may be, trust that He is using the discomfort to equip you for what’s ahead.
For just like my father’s brain learned to balance again, your spirit will find its footing in God’s hands. And when you look back, you’ll see His faithfulness in every step.
A step at a time with gratitude and smiles :)
