Known or Unknown

He was a young man. He seemed pleasant enough and exhibited a quiet confidence that comes from knowledge. We took up our positions as dictated to by culture. I in the uncomfortable armed chair against the wall and he on the round wheeled stool drawn up to the institutional desk like shelf hanging from the wall as if placed there for the sole purpose of complementing the round chair. The room is small and institutional.

The young man closes the door and proceeds to tell me about this pain. At times I have trouble following his multi-syllabic language but he is gracious and just a slight bit condescending in its translation. He is logical in presentation not leaving much to the imagination. The options are clear and concise, one from column “A.” or one from column “B.” or one from column “C.”. And, by the way, column “B.” probably won’t work, column “C.” will probably make it worse, and column “A.” might help.

Do I understand? What an intriguing question. Do I understand the part about what the pain is? Yes, very well done sir. Do I understand the part about what needs to be done? Yes, resounding clarity, admirable presentation. Do I understand the part about what the odds are that this is a bad thing? Yes, well stated, precise numbers, not 90%, not 88%, but 89%. Somewhat like checking the tire pressure, “Yup, there’s a 89% chance that this thing will kill you.”

What about this question? Do you understand that from this moment in time your life will change forever? People will look at you differently. The mix of fear and sadness, discomfort and thanksgiving is hard to hide. I think it’s their eyes. They look directly at you, searching for some absolution or abstraction that pardons the discomforting thought of my future and the gratitude for theirs. Why don’t we look at each other like that when we’re both whole? Why can’t we touch each other’s soul as a normal part of everyday life? And if we are so bold, rid our selves of the unexplainable guilt that rises from culture, or teaching, or spiritual misdirection, or some other misprisonment.

He was an older man. He was at ease and though attempting to construct a peer to peer relationship with his learner it was evident that he had been in this room more times than he could remember. But as “wisdom’s mark doth show,” he did.

He sat down beside me and leaned toward me until our arms pressed against each other. Then I recognized Him. The voice was calm and firm, filled with on unflinching confidence, unmistakable concern, and genuine sincerity. It was Him; compassion, acceptance, consolation, empathy. It was G-d Himself in this man, known or not known, nonetheless present. He had me…and without struggle brought me back from my pending dark journey into myself, and with a touch the focus changed. I could hear His voice, not the wise man sent to comfort me, but the voice I have over the years come to recognize. “Listen,” He said, “you’ve done all the dying you’re ever going to do. This is just another change.”

Salt Shakers

There is somewhere time to think about pain. There is a stoic place in the somewhere that says pain makes you stronger. I don’t have total agreement with this postulation because there is no definition involved. Physical, emotional, spiritual, cultural, national pain all manifest in ways that may be strengthening but many just hurt.

Over the past several months I have experienced physical pain that presents itself in various guises, from a sharp wrenching burn to a crouching clandestine discomfort that drags everything to the edge of thought and emotion. This one doesn’t strengthen and in fact it does the opposite.

It reminds me of visiting my aunt Maimie’s house. She lived with her daughter Helen and a small particularly annoying miniature dog that at some times, to me, seemed to be indistinguishable from the multitude of collectibles unevenly distributed in veritable every vacant space. The pre-visit parental admonition was “don’t break anything.” most particularly the dog and most surely the salt shakers. The collectibles were salt shakers that had, over the years, been painstakingly called together by my aunt and cousin into a sea of porcelain and pewter, all of it quite valuable and most certainly most fragile.

I should say a word here about my natural tendency. Though probably not inherited, it was every bit as apparent from an early age and has become more refined over time. Things around me like to fall off shelves, get caught on clothing, jump in front of my feet, move over head and behind elbows and generally make a nuisance of themselves by smashing to pieces on some conveniently located hard surface. I’m a “klutz”, a “shla’meal.” So in the shaker museum with its pint sized purveyor of calamity I sat on the edge of anticipation, not anticipation of “if” but of “when.”

This discomfort is the same feeling. I am consistently anticipating the smash of sensation that will capture every focus of my life. This pain is tiring. It adds neither strength nor wisdom. It has no lesson to leave no moral to reveal. It is malicious, nasty, and disconcerting. I would like to leave it to its watchful purpose and go home now.

Before the Morrow

This is the day before the day and I am in the midst of the prescribed exercise of "cleansing". It has an interesting ring to it. I'm thinking of putting on a long robe and climbing to the top of some nearby mountain but then they don't have commodes up there so that's definitely out of the question. In between my trips to my mountain alternative today I have some pieces that have been squeezed from my spirit to share. Thank you to everyone for your thoughts and prayers.

JR

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No flowers at the hospital??? :-(

All,

In researching the James Cancer center (looking for wireless internet access - what else?), I came across the following from their "Patients and Visitors Guide":


Flower Arrangements and Balloons

Live plants and cut flowers are not permitted in The James because they may spread infections. Floral arrangements made of silk, paper, plastic or ceramic may be given to patients...Only mylar balloons are permitted; no rubber or latex balloons are allowed in The James due to concerns about allergic reactions.


Just a heads up in case you were planning to send flowers.

Surgery Scheduled 8:15AM

This morning I recieved the third in a series of phone calls from the surgical scheduler at the OSU medical center. Apparently, they keep spilling coffee on the schedule for what once was a 7:00AM surgery is no longer at 9:00AM but at 8:15AM. (Sept. 1)

To this point.

This episode began several years ago when with little warning I experienced what I diagnosed to be kidney stones. It was an excruciating incident that relies on experience for explanation. I have been told that with the possible exception of childbirth, it may be one of the top ten pains. Medical communication being more art then science has quantified pain into a ten point numbering scale with one being the mildly discomforted smiley face and ten being the “oh my god, where’s my leg.” This pain was a ten with a bullet.

The doctor, however, did not agree with my diagnoses because in that dramatically clinical and qualitative diagnostic test; i.e. please pee in the cup, nothing turned up, no little stony things, no blood, nothing. He almost seemed disappointed. I, however, had been feeling fine from about ten days after the event until the time that I had eventually made it in to see the doctor. We need to watch this and call me if it happens again. I can remember leaving the office and mentally making a list of all the things I would call him if it did happen again.

Things were fine for about eighteen months and then the premonition of pain appeared again but this time I was ready. Lola had been studying polarity for sometime and had identified all the body marks that could head off those kidney stones at the pass. So I asked her to “do that voodoo that you do so well.” The treatment seemed to work and another six or eight months passed and I remained fat and happy. As 2006 dawned it was Lola who was garnering all the medical attention. Her sixteen year battle with the “shadow beast” culminated in surgery for a hydro-cephalic condition. It was almost a miracle cure, which just goes to prove you should never underestimate the value of drilling a hole in your head and putting in a piece of plastic. She’s feeling better then she has in years.

In May I began to have the nagging premonition again and was experiencing some mild discomfort, so we opted to do what had worked before. This time with an associate of Lola’s that came to give her a treatment as part of her recovery. When it was my turn under the screw Lola said, “It may not be such a good idea to lay flat on the firm treatment table.” Understanding that the idea of me laying flat anywhere was quite revolutionary, I in my flawed logic replied, “What could it hurt?” The answer of course was me. Such pain I had! It was only through God’s providence that Amad was visiting or I might still be on the treatment table.

Another undiagnosed kidney stone was again my mis-diagnoses and as before, just holding on through the worst of the pain was my prescription. This one brought an attitude. It was bound and determined not to leave me alone until I paid attention to it. The expected ten day persecution period passed and though there was some moderation, it was still persistent in holding my attention. Over the next month and a half I relied on little red and white capsules to bring me to a place where I could pretend to ignore it. It was my decision to wait for my scheduled doctor’s appointment that turned out to be a blood test and no visit with the physician making my real face to face a good two months from the occurrence. And still the pain, in its obnoxious little egotism, was always demanding attention, always suggesting something else.
Again the doctor says; “pee in the cup” and still comes up with the same results and admits his desire to have pictures of me, from the inside. We scheduled a cat scan with results reported by some type of medical personnel by phone in a “what’s my line” impersonation next to none. I have a cyst on my kidney that warrants further pictures, ones that cost more. And then the doctor calls. Now I don’t know much about the medical profession but I do know the difference between a call from the medical personnel and one from the doctor. It’s a solid mass, a growth, a tumor, a bad thing, and I need to see a specialist.

The specialist confirms it’s not a good thing. An unwanted growth that has a ninety percent chance of being cancer is his best offer. My memory for multi-syllabic medical language is limited but the translation is an aggressive surgical kidney cancer that does not respond to chemo or radiation. Because the little bugger (5cm) has grown down into the kidney the option is to remove the kidney. So here we are waiting for September 1 when surgeons will exercise their laparoscopy skills in yet another test of the practice of medicine.

Where have I been?

This electronic journal is an attempt to keep everyone up to date on this unwanted but necessary journey through a Psalm 23 valley. It is my hope that through the thoughts shared here, by all, we can encourage each other whether we are in the valley or on either side.

Thank you to Sue Fredrick who came up with this idea and did the technical work. “A grateful mind, by owing owes not, but still pays, at once…” (John Milton) Thank's Sue.

JR