A Reflection on a Torn Labrum & The Process of Grief
It has been over a year since my shoulder surgery in Spring 2021 to repair a torn labrum, and I’ve spent the past couple months reflecting on that harrowing experience.
To give some background, for many years, my right shoulder had been bothering me after a volleyball injury. The labrum is a thick piece of tissue deep in the shoulder joint that keeps the ball of the joint in place, and the tearing had led to continual discomfort, inability to do several activities and exercises, and the pain was even to the point that sometimes I would simply turn over in my sleep and wake up feeling like my shoulder had been dislocated. The surgery was necessary, especially once I made the decision to move to DRC where medical options will be much more limited. However, the surgery and recovery was one of the most painful physical experiences I have ever had. The day of surgery was filled with many inconveniences and medical difficulties, but the preeminent problem was that the nerve block administered by the anesthesiologist did not work. For major surgeries, a nerve block will often last up to 24 hours or longer to give you relief after the operation. When I woke up in the recovery room after my surgery, I have no words to articulate the level of pain I felt besides that I could feel everything. I was still out of it from the anesthesia, so all I could do was cry, and I was not able to explain what I was feeling to the nurse. Since strict Covid restrictions were still in place, my parents were not able to be in the recovery room with me either, and I felt so alone. I was supposed to be released no more than two hours after I woke up from surgery, but due to many other complications (that I won’t go into detail about), I was not released to go home for six hours. Then, I had awful side-effects to the pain medications that I had been given, so after days of horrible trial and error, I sufficed only on over-the-counter pain medicine. It took me a month to be able to use my right arm for anything, then I spent many months in painful physical therapy, and now, a year later, though I am thankful that I do not have significant pain anymore, I am attempting to gain back muscle tone to the atrophied muscles.
Though the surgery and recovery has led to several good things, like a healed shoulder and a beautiful friendship with my physical therapist, as I reflect on the experience, I am still overcome by the amount of pain I experienced and wondering why it had to be so difficult. Overall, I am wrestling with the anger at what feels like injustice: it doesn’t seem fair that it was so painful. Why did it have to be so hard, expensive, and uncomfortable?
This internal contention is indelibly tied to many other questions and struggles in my life. I am coming to realize that I am quite ill at ease with the feeling of anger, yet I hold much anger in my body, and I do not know what to do with it.
As I am beginning to work through these struggles, I have discovered a unique connection between anger and grief. Back in college, during a summer ministry internship in Denver, my team was meeting weekly with Amy, a seasoned cross-cultural missionary who has extraordinary member care gifts (she also is an amazing author: check out Amy Young!!). As the internship was finishing up, Amy was explaining the importance of grieving, even when good things are coming to an end. As she invited each of us to share the way that we grieved, every team member was able to articulate how they express grief, yet I could only say, “I don’t think I grieve.” Amy, in her particular loving yet matter-of-fact way, responded, “Well, that’s not healthy.” That was such an important realization for me, and I have been working toward expressions of healthy grieving ever since.
Another important conversation I had about grief was with my Asia regional directors right before I left India. I had developed such deep friendships and relationships in just a couple years, and I went into my last dinner with the Youngs, who have said countless hellos and goodbyes in their decades on the field, seeking wisdom on how to deal with the continual grief of goodbyes and transitions. Back then, I expected an extensive theological treatise citing different Scripture passages. I was quite surprised when they simply answered, “You just keep doing it.” Over the past few years, I think I’ve begun to see the true wisdom in their response. I’m sure that the Youngs could write an amazing book about the grief of goodbyes, but when I was in the middle of the transition and feeling the deep, difficult emotions, they knew that an easy answer would be unhelpful and unwise. Yes, there are sweet promises in Scripture, but to throw a verse out of context at someone in the midst of suffering is usually not the most helpful answer.
I know that I have so much more to learn about processing my anger that is often tied to unexpressed grief, and perhaps someday I will be able to find answers to my many questions. However, if there are answers, they are probably not what I expect them to be. But maybe, like the Youngs said, you just keep doing it. Perhaps, the simple truth of God’s comfort, peace, and love is all that is needed.
