“You wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You:Because he trusts in You.” Isaiah 26:3 (NKJV)
More than once, growing up, I overheard my mother tell someone that I was her weak one. That’s because I was sick—a lot. It did seem that germs had an intentional way of finding me. I spent many birthdays in bed (hello, January), fever-laden, and trying to recover from what was usually another round of tonsillitis.
Around the age of ten, someone told my parents that if I didn’t get my tonsils removed, I would lose my voice. Had I been a talker (like my sister), this would have been more likely. Family lore has it that she was born talking. I guess my parents weren’t too worried about that happening to me, because it took several years before I did get rid of those germ-grabbing throat flaps.
Finally, when I was 15, the state of my poor tonsils could no longer be ignored.
Enter Dr. George Westcott. After many years of serving as a missionary doctor in Africa, he and his ailing wife came back to the States. My father’s small salary, our large family, and lack of insurance made his generous, if albeit sometimes unconventional, services much appreciated.
The good doctor did not coddle his patients. For several years he helped our church youth group with the State required camp physicals. As I recall, the method for our tetanus shot delivery was akin to how my brothers played darts. Tough teenage guys were known to faint.
After a podiatrist failed to successfully remove 27 thriving plantar warts from the ball of my left foot, Dr. Westcott took over. His process involved a lot of cutting, several office visits, and me limping like a wounded puppy, but, by George (and thanks to George), those warts disappeared. On a side note, I did get out of gym class for three weeks.
One evening the Westcotts came for dinner. Afterward, we gathered behind the slide projector in our little, darkened living room to see life in Africa. I have vivid recollections of pictures of Africans with tennis-ball-sized goiters on their necks and Dr. Westcott describing how he removed them.
All of this to say that while he was a skilled doctor, his techniques were sometimes—well, unique. For these reasons and more, I was not surprised to hear that he did not feel I needed to be put to sleep for the tonsillectomy. In his opinion, there was less chance of hemorrhaging.
It sounded unusual, but my dad said I would be all right, and I believed him.
Operation day finally came. I was taken to the hospital, told the protocol, and conveyed to the operating room.
There I sat upright in a chair, head back and mouth open. Understandably, the conversation was one-sided.
“Open wide,” Dr. Westcott said while sticking a cotton swab attached to a long wooden stick down my throat. “Just going to make it numb so you don’t feel the needles as much.” He didn’t mention the cutting. I assumed the needles were to take care of that.
“Relax. There’s no need to gag. You’re fine.” At that point, a memory resurfaced of my dentist once saying something similar. Technically, the dentist said I didn’t need to swallow. Close enough.
It was a John Wayne era.
Then the needles came—as in plural and very long, soon followed by various instruments. I closed my eyes. Pretty sure I was praying. I might have been writing a story in my head.
Unfortunately, my lips were not numb, so when I felt something wet and slimy drag over them, my eyes opened—not entirely sure they wanted to see.
“There they are,” he said with a satisfied air. “I can put them in formaldehyde, for you if you like.”
I shook my head.
That was it—back to the room and then home, followed by a few weeks with a very sore throat. And no more tonsillitis (or tonsils)—ever. Nada.
On the other hand, there was a teenage boy who checked in for a regular tonsillectomy that same day and had to return to surgery due to hemorrhaging.
During my in-depth research for this highly technical and scientific article, I found that between 1958 and 1973, roughly 12,000 such tonsillectomies were performed and reported to be the safer method.
It is known as a Guillotine tonsillectomy.
Chew on that for a while.
To me, the most interesting fact in all of this is that I never doubted my father when he said that I would be all right. Was I apprehensive? Yes. Was I uncomfortable? Oh, yeah.
But I was never afraid of the outcome. I trusted my father.
He had never given me any reason not to.
Life is filled with challenges—things we can’t control. And with each one, we are given the choice of whether or not we will trust our Father.
Recently, I wanted to save someone from a dire situation but couldn’t. What was happening wasn’t fair or right, and I didn’t understand. Subtly, I questioned my heavenly Father’s goodness.
I was prepared to worry more (anyone with me here?), but the schedule called for music lessons. Going into autopilot and focusing on my students helped me forget the heaviness within. Finally, the evening ended with a passionate, full-of-life, 12-year-old boy.
I pulled out a song he was preparing to sing in church and began to play.
*” I’ve heard a thousand stories of what they think You’re like,
But I’ve heard the tender whispers of love in the dead of night…” (Pat Barrett)
The words overwhelmed me, and I looked down, struggling for composure. When I did lift my head, my young student stood with eyes closed, and palms raised singing.
“You’re a good, good Father. It’s who You are, it’s who You are, it’s who You are.
And I’m loved by you, it’s who I am, it’s who I am…”(Pat Barrett)
I have a good, good Father, and I can trust Him—not just because His Word says I can (though that should be enough) but because He has proven His trustworthiness to me.
The music poured over me, and tears of gratitude filled my eyes.
Life is full of operating rooms. Most of them aren’t in hospitals. Most of them are in my heart.
And most of them are a matter of trust.
I don’t need to worry about the outcome.
I don’t need to understand what is happening.
I don’t need to have all the answers.
My Father has already assured me that everything is going to be all right.
And I believe my Father.
Our Matthew had Tonsillectomy and adnoidectomy last Monday. It was this Mom who had to even in the routine “simple” procedure trust Our Father had him in His hands. Thankfully Matthew was asleep during the surgery, but it has been nine very long painful days for him. Today was the first day He could swallow anything but liquids. Super hard for a growing hungry 12 yr old.
He is supposed to sing a duet in convention in 4 weeks! Praying he can do his best. 🙂
Thank you for sharing your stories. They are not only touching and sometimes humourous, but also redirect my thoughts to the goodness of our Father.
I am so glad that Matthew is doing better and excited for his solo. Way to go, Matthew! Keep singing for our Father (and always trusting in Him–even when you’re hungry!).
Such helpful truth! Thank you!
And yet, one we humans so quickly forget!
Thank you💕just what I needed today.