Hospital Lessons

My friend, Bonnie, has been in a coma for several weeks. She is 31 years old. Even though Bonnie is a decade younger than me, she’s always been wiser. We were supposed to travel to Chicago together this month for the Storyline conference, and we joked she was in charge of our itinerary because she’s more responsible than I am.

Bonnie has always been good at teaching others. She taught me about the importance of adoption, about Chacos, about the Fifth Ward, about how to order at Starbucks, and about how to give freely. Bonnie taught me the joy of her phrase, “I would love to lighten your load, friend.”

Like Bonnie, most of her friends are also just starting their 30s—a hard decade. For these past few weeks, Bonnie’s friends have lived at the hospital . They are learning so many lessons right now. Thanks to Bonnie, they’re learning these raw lessons in fast-forward.

To see effervescent Bonnie fed through a tube and breathing through a trach,  we all learn a little more about life’s fragility. Unconscious in her hospital bed, Bonnie is holding silent lectures, reprimanding anyone who might have been a control freak, a people-pleaser, or who is holding the trivial parts of life too tightly.

Here’s what else our Bonnie is teaching us right now:

1. Spend way less time on your image. Stop trying to create a version of yourself you believe the world wants. You don’t have that kind of time. Around the corner might be blessing that looks like a tragedy. You will run smack-dab into it, and this blessing/tragedy will unravel the image you’re worked hard to create. Then, you will have no choice but to tell the truth about who you are. This is where life gets really interesting. Start living like that now, and you’ll save yourself so much time.

2. Bonnie is teaching you about the difference between acquaintances and fierce friends.  Your 30s are when you bump up against really ugly parts of life. Parents get sick. You get sick. Divorce happens. Careers plummet. You have kids, and parenthood is way different than you thought it would be. You struggle, and only a few people care for you. Your thirties are about sifting your friends from your acquaintances. At some point, you think, “Wow. I have way fewer friends than I thought I did. But my real friends love me more than I could have imagined.” As Bonnie’s lies in the hospital day-after-day, you see this lesson happening up close. You see the difference between well-meaning acquaintances and those who love Bonnie fiercely. Find the fierce friends in your life and cling to them.

3. Show up. It takes most people their whole lives to learn this lesson. Most of the time, all we can do is show up. This is no script of what to do when your friend is in a coma. What are you supposed to do when your daughter is lying in ICU with pneumonia? You show up. What do you do when your best friend is in a coma, and you’re in Hungary? You show up (via voicemail). What do you do when your niece is unconscious and in pain after a rough surgery? You show up. Even if you totaled your car the day before because you are so exhausted. You hold her hands and kiss her forehead. You. Keep. Showing. Up. By showing up, day-in and day-out, you eventually learn the only things you can do are pray and hug—and bring everyone the best food you have. Love—and delicious snacks—count for a lot.

4. You either believe in God or you don’t. Those of us surrounding Bonnie have lived through some terrifying moments this past month. These are are faith-distilling moments. Either you believe that God, the Creator, is holding Bonnie, or you don’t. You either believe He has the ability sustain’s Bonnie’s life, or you don’t. Either you believe her loving Savior has the best plan for her, or you don’t. Suddenly all those years of Bible study and sermons get very real. If you’ve been by Bonnie’s bed this month, you know what moments I’m talking about. One day, you can tell Bonnie all about these moments. She will love these stories.

I have so many stories for Bonnie. When she is finally out of the hospital, I will take her out for tacos, and I will tell her all about the lessons she’s taught us these past several weeks. I will tell her I always knew she had a wonderful group of friends, but I have never, ever witnessed such fierce love up close. I will tell her about the gentleness and love that lived in her hospital room. I will probably cry.

And because she’s Bonnie, she will laugh, and cry, and then she will hug me fiercely and tell me, “thank you.”

Then I will say to Bonnie, “No. Once again, thank you.”