I
almost titled this blog post "Diagnostics and maintenance," but I
didn't want anyone to think that I was going to write about cars. (Actually, I
do have an idea to write about my car, but it might not make it here on my blog
for quite a while.) So, I thought I'd continue with my question-mark-in-the-title
trend and my really-disgusting-subject-matter trend for now. For this particular
gross topic, for your sake and for my dignity's sake, I'm very glad that I
don't have photos available for this post. I would like to blog about a story
that I've told people in person. I was reminded of this incident today while I
was performing routine maintenance on my cats. That is, once a month, I have to
ambush -- I mean, uh... subtly approach my cats... and trim their nails, clean
their ears, and apply heartworm-prevention medicine on their fur. So, on with
my story, and please be forewarned that it's a graphic but hopefully humorous
one.
About
10 years ago, I started a new job that was extremely stressful. I developed IBS-like
symptoms and needed to call in sick and visit a medical clinic at least once.
To add to the scariness, I didn't have health insurance at the time. One of the
doctors explained to me that after the health insurance would kick in at my new
job, they could "scope" me and investigate my condition further.
After a short while, I was promoted to a less stressful position at work, and
my symptoms improved. I wasn't sick anymore. I went back to the clinic for
follow-up and testing, but later I was informed that a test yielded disturbing
results. So, they scheduled me for my "scope" procedure -- a flexible
sigmoidoscopy. This is a procedure where they basically stick a camera up your
butt so that they can look at your intestines. This is similar to a
colonoscopy, but the camera doesn't go up as far, and you're awake during the
procedure.
So,
after I prepared for the procedure by not eating solid foods for 24 hours, I
arrived at the clinic for my flexible sigmoidoscopy, and I was told that they
would also perform a procedure on me called a barium enema, whatever that was.
So, I changed into a hospital-type gown and went into a room with a male doctor
and a male nurse. The cheerful doctor asked me if I would allow some medical
students (I think they were both female) to observe the procedure. I consented,
and my reasoning was basically Sure, why
not? I'm about to be humiliated, anyway.
I
was told that the procedure would involve the nurse using a device to
mechanically blast air up into my intestines, I think because my empty intestines
needed to be blown up so that the scoping camera could take good photographs
and that the medical staff could take a good look at exactly what was inside my
intestines. I was warned that I would feel pressure and discomfort during the
procedure. However, I was not warned that I had just been told a series of
major understatements.
So,
air-compressor noises were roaring behind me while air was painfully blasted up
my butt while medical students were watching the whole thing and taking notes
while the doctor made a joke, I guess to try to lighten the mood. I was in a
buttload of cramping pain, and I was probably cringing and/or groaning, and the
nurse was telling me to hold still or stop squirming or something. I don't
remember exactly. I just know that it hurt.
When
it was over, I was told that I would have some privacy while I could get
dressed and that I might pass some gas. Another major understatement. I had
intestines that were full of artificial air, so I artificially farted. A heck
of a lot. Imagine the longest fart you've ever farted, multiply that by about 5,
and voila, you've got an idea of what my supersonic, non-stinky farts were
like.
The
doctor gave me a good report: the only thing he detected during the procedure
was a condition that I won't repeat on this blog post, but let's just say that some
ways to treat this condition are eating a high-fiber diet, taking a fiber
supplement, and using Preparation H.
I
thought that I could go home right after this procedure, but I was reminded that
I needed to drive to a nearby hospital for my next procedure: a barium enema. I
was warned that this procedure would be somewhat similar to the last procedure.
Instead of using an air compressor and a camera, the barium enema would fill my
empty intestines with a substance that would allow my intestines to glow in the
dark, so to speak, while medical staff would take X-rays. This procedure was
uncomfortable, but it wasn't as humorous of a circus as the flexible
sigmoidoscopy, and nobody was in the room with me while it was happening. It
was a little bit scary lying there alone on the examination table while I was
vulnerable and had a radioactive substance pumped into my butt while a machine
took pictures of my posing-for-the-camera intestines, and I was being observed
by people that I couldn't see. I actually ended up writing part of a worship
song while I was lying there. The first lines went, "You will never leave
me / Never forsake me."
Before
I finally got to go home, the nurse warned me that since I had just been pumped
with stuff, I would have white poop. I was like, Whatever. I didn't really believe her, until I got home and... OH, MY GOSH, IT'S WHITE!
I
don't remember hearing back from the barium-enema doctor, so I think that means
that my test results were normal. Ever since that day, I've tried to include
more fiber in my diet. And I'm glad that I had those tests, because not knowing
what's wrong is perhaps more scary than finding out the truth.
"You
are my hiding place; You will protect me from trouble and surround me with
songs of deliverance. Selah I will
instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and
watch over you. Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no
understanding but must be controlled by bit and bridle or they will not come to
you." (Psalm 32:7-9)
"Hope
deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life."
(Proverbs 13:12)
When
I say things like "God, I want to be free, and I don't care what it looks
like" or "Lord, please do whatever You want with me" or "This
really hurts; please heal my wound" or "I don't want crap; I want
You," He takes me up on it. I don't think He usually uses anesthesia. He
pretty much just tells me that He's about to slice me open and perform a
spiritual/emotional procedure, and He goes for it. If I kick and scream, He
reminds me that I need to hold still and stop squirming. He's serious about
operating on my heart. He's serious about restoring my soul. He's serious about
my emotional healing and well-being. He doesn't want my heart to be sick, and I
don't want it to be sick, either. I want Him to keep digging deep inside me and
removing anything that isn't supposed to be there, including any infections or
scar tissue or parasites that may have been leftover from past procedures that
were ended prematurely or from procedures that He wasn't performing or from
whatever out-of-whack thing that has been lurking inside me and just needs to be removed.
If my symptoms improve, I want Him to keep operating and preventing any kind of
disease.
So,
while I was performing maintenance today on my cats, I was reminded of a blog post that I wrote awhile
back. If my cats don't let me trim their nails on a regular basis, their claws
could grow dangerously long and scratch me or curve around and fuse onto their
paws. If my cats don't let me clean their ears on a regular basis, their ears
could become so dirty that an infection could develop. If my cats don't let me
give them their heartworm-prevention medicine on a regular basis, they could
become very sick. These are all procedures that my cats often resist, sometimes
ferociously. It's something that needs to be done, and it would be over a lot
faster if they would just cooperate and let me be their catmama. After years of
performing this maintenance (with lots of trial, error, and getting a
talking-to from a vet), I've developed a technique that seems to work (at least
for now). I'll wait until it's their morning snacktime, during a weekend when
I've got plenty of time, and they're ready to launch into their scheduled
napping slumber, and their bellies are almost empty, and I'll begin the
maintenance routine. They'll offer little resistance because they're sleepy and
hungry, and since they depend on me to feed them, they're pretty much at my
mercy. I'll usually affirm them during the procedures, too: "Good boy.
You're my girl. I love you. You're my kitty."
I'm
pretty sure it's the same way with me and God. "Are you ready?"
"Sure, I-- AAAGH! THIS HURTS!" "It's OK. Almost done. Hold
still." "Oy vey!" The God of all comfort knows what He's doing.
I need to just let Him do it. And I don't think He'll leave me alone
in a strange room during a procedure that He's conducting and then neglect to
contact me afterwards. He's a good Daddymama who counsels me and helps me
through the whole thing. And that's no major understatement.
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