Advocacy, tears, unexpected grace and the faith that refused to wave.
There are weeks that ask everything of you. THIS was one of them.
Sunday - The Email
Lisa had left. The house was quiet in that particular way it gets after emotional goodbyes; not peaceful, just empty.
But before I could sit with that quiet, another message arrived from the hospital. Jean’s gout had returned, severely, while he was still in his hospital bed. I had to arrange another round of the pharmacy remedy and get it to him. One more thing to coordinate. One more worry to carry.
Later that evening, I sat down and wrote to the urologist.
I had needed to say these things for days. About the waiting. About the financial and emotional strain of being so far from the hospital with no timeline and no communication. About the logistical reality of our lives that nobody in that hospital corridor seemed to consider.
But most importantly – about Jean’s hearing.
Jean has what the audiologist diagnosed as profound tone deafness. He hears, but not always accurately. Certain frequencies simply don’t reach him. High pitched voices like mine. Bird calls. Whistles. The subtle tonal differences that carry meaning in conversation.
The complication is this: Jean believes he has heard correctly. He is not being careless or inattentive. He is doing his absolute best with what reaches him. But what reaches him is sometimes incomplete, and he fills the gaps without realising it.
In a hospital ward, with multiple specialists delivering complex, fragmented medical information, sometimes through masks, the gaps between what is said and what Jean hears become chasms.
I had already seen it happen. The haematologist had been clear: Jean’s blood thinning medication would be adjusted, moved from the easily reversible anti coagulants to something more manageable and body friendly. What Jean heard and relayed to us was that he could come off blood thinners entirely. Two completely different medical realities. One misheard sentence.
I explained all of this to the doctor as clearly and kindly as I could. I asked for one simple thing: call me on speaker phone when you are at Jean’s bedside. Let me hear it directly. Let me document it accurately. Let me be the bridge between the medical team and our family.
I pressed send and went to bed
BlueMonday
By early Monday I was already on the road.
My cousin’s wife, a cancer sufferer of too many years, and a faithful supporter throughout Jean’s journey, needed to get to her oncologist. Despite everything she was carrying in her own body, she had never stopped asking after Jean, giving advice based on experience, encouraging us. I drove her there, left her in capable hands and turned my attention back to the hospital.
Jean called. He was ready. Come fetch me.
What I didn’t know yet was that the doctor had already been to see Jean that morning and mentioned an email received
He asked Jean who Brigitte was. A daughter perhaps? In Ireland?
Jean smiled. “No. My wife.”
The doctor’s response was immediate and clear. He would deal with one person only… with me, as primary caregiver. He had spoken to me once, and would prefer that I convey to the family what they required.
Jean relayed this to Lisa exactly as he had understood it.
The message Lisa received was simple and final: the doctor would only deal with Brigitte. She was being shut out.
I was sitting at Jean’s bedside, waiting for his medication and final discharge paperwork … always waiting. The phone pinged and the WhatsApp arrived in our family group.
Lisa was done.
Done enquiring. Done advocating. Done driving ten hours and taking time off work for a doctor who couldn’t give her five minutes. If the doctor would only speak to one person, fine. Let her know how the procedure goes. Don’t call her today.
I read it and the tears came.
Not because she was wrong. She wasn’t wrong. She had come with such love – for her dad, and for me. And had left feeling dismissed and excluded. She had waited in that hospital with us. She had driven all that way. And the message she received told her she didn’t matter enough to speak to directly, no matter how vital her support had been to us both.
The very thing I had warned the doctor about in my email , that Jean’s hearing was causing fractures in our family, had happened anyway. Hours after I sent it.
I spoke briefly to the doctor from the nurses’ station myself. I sensed he was perhaps not entirely pleased with my email, though I could be wrong about that. When I tried to ask questions he told me gently but firmly that he was with a patient. We would need to make an appointment.
In that moment I wished deeply that we had kept the 5th June appointment. So much of the anxiety, the miscommunication, the emotional fracturing of those days… it could have all been avoided.
Home At last
Jean was discharged Monday midday.
He came home exhausted, relieved and still tethered to the catheter, which frustrated him enormously, limiting the movement and exercise that had become so central to his healing rhythm. The gout, thankfully, had responded to the pharmacy remedy. Another small battle won.
Wednesday, Jean called the rooms to make an appointment with the urologist.
22nd July.
More waiting. More uncertainty suspended in calendar pages.
But something shifted when we sat with that date together. We talked. We prayed. And slowly we began to see it differently. This journey had never moved on our timeline. Every delay had eventually revealed a purpose. Every wave had strengthened rather than broken us.
Maybe this wait was also by design.
The Farewell Gathering
Sunday 14th June
Just up the road , about 80 of us gathered to say farewell to a remarkable family returning to the Phillipines on the completion of a 2 year contract. They had woven themselves so completely into the fabric of our church community – their going was joyful and sad in equal measure.
People asked Jean about his journey. Alarm showed on their faces, horrified by the wait.
I stood firm.
“This is God telling us to wait,” I said. “By the 22nd, the testimony will be there”
I have always claimed that Jean will be healed and repeated this to those enquiring about Jean that Sunday afternoon, without hesitation or qualification.
I claimed it. I stand by it. I believe it with everything in me.
My faith is not the fragile kind that needs good news to survive. It is the kind that speaks healing into being… and then waits, patiently and expectantly, for God to show up in His time
The Phone Call
Monday the 15th of June.
The doctor’s rooms called.
Could we come on the 17th?
I didn’t hesitate for a single second.
Twenty four hours after I had declared to many people Jean’s healing…. the wait was suddenly, unexpectedly, over.
Not the 22nd of July.
The 17th of June.
God’s timing. Not ours. Never ours.
At last. After all the waiting, the corridors, the tears, the miscommunication, the gout, the emotional goodbyes, the faith declared out loud to anyone listening
I would finally sit face to face with the urologist.
For the first time since this journey began.
To Be Continued
What happened in that room on the 17th of June deserves its own telling.
It is coming in Blog 5 ….. along with a message we feel compelled to share with every man, every spouse, every family navigating the quiet signs that the body sends long before crisis arrives.
We’ll share it soon.
If this journey has resonated with you : if you are walking a similar road, advocating for someone you love, or simply holding onto faith in a season of waiting, we would love to hear from you.