Lesson 10: Times Like These

I am a one way motorway,

I'm the one that drives away

then follows you back home.

I am a street light shining

I'm a wild light blinding bright

burning off alone.

It's times like these you learn to live again.

It's times like these you give and give again.

It's times like these you learn to love again.

It's times like these time and time again.

I am a new day rising,

I'm a brand new sky

to hang the stars upon tonight.

I am a little divided.

Do I stay or run away

and leave it all behind.

It's times like these you learn to live again.

It's times like these you give and give again.

It's times like these you learn to love again.

It's times like these time and time again.



David Grohl of The Foo Fighters, Times Like These

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Juw-pDJPX5Y

          Wednesday, December 15th, 6AM

     After a pathetic night of little sleep, incessant mechanical sounds, and voices outside the reach of my eyes, I am glad to see the nurse come in.  She is smiling.  (I am actually more coherent now than at any point up to this moment.)  Why do they smile?  Is that a prerequisite class all nurses must complete?  Smile! Talk politely...with a bit of helium added.  Walk with a distinct purpose!  Come straight into the room. State your name.  Bring tidings of great joy - or just another heparin shot.  the nurse is nice enough.  But, it really is too early to be this chipper.  Furthermore, I don't want chipper right now.  I want some answers.  I want some information.  I want someone to tell me what is going on.  Ouch.  Forgot.  The heparin shot. Why can't they put that mess in the IV?

     She takes my vital signs and crisply turns and walks commandingly out of the room.  I am beginning to WANT to wake up.  I am beginning to see and think a little clearer.  I turn my heard to the left and Missy is laying between two chairs in position I am not sure she will want to wake up from.  I chuckle and smile.  I reach for the remote connected to the bed...not because I have had diarrhea on myself again, but rather to turn on the TV.  Local news and weather.  Ahhh.  Reality.  Normalcy. Smiling faces greet me - still to early, but I begin to smile some.  I am feeling tired.  But my mind has yet to quit racing.  If it isn't what the amoeba claims it to be, well then what could it be?  What could it be?

     Pinching the bridge of my nose with my right thumb and fore-finger I try to relieve the building pressure my mind is beginning to collect.  I try and think.  It is a hopeless cause.  Missy awakes.  She looks worse than I do.  Of course, if I had attempted her Ringling Brother's feat of sleeping where people are supposed to sit, well...it wouldn't be pretty.  My mind races back to my first church...Mt. Olivet UMC and two sisters whose names I cannot remember who stayed in the waiting room for one month...ONE MONTH...while their mother remained in at UK after surviving an aneurysm in her stomach (less than 3% survival rate if I remember correctly.  She lived).  Are family members really not allowed to rest?  How can Missy care for me if she cannot even get a half-decent rest?  Poor families shuffling aimlessly through the hallways and pouring cup after cup of terrible coffee made by those chipper nurses...  People are hugging outside my door.  Across the hallway.  They are crying helplessly.  Shoulders are bearing faces up.  Arms are protecting the crying ones as they encircle and engulf them.  Why do people in church not care like this all the time?

     "Good morning, Mr. Housewright!"  This voice was chipper as well, but with a little more relaxed feel.  Breakfast is served.  In bed - not that I want it this way.  I would rather be at home making breakfast.  I would rather be serving...not being served.  Why is that such a hard and humiliating lesson to learn - allow others to serve you.  She leaves the tray for me and is very kind.  As she turns I notice the top half of a tattoo across her neck.  Never would have guessed that.  Ignorance again.  My stomach rumbles.  Quit judging people I remind myself as I hazily recall accusations of drug abuse.  I shake my head and remove the cover to my breakfast.  A quick sniff, a millisecond glance, the top goes back on.  "Where in the h... do they get this food?"  I wonder.  I voraciously chug the two orange juices I have been afforded.  The coffee is among the worst I have ever tasted.  How much is this costing me?  Do I have to pay for this?  Where does the staff get their food because it sure isn't from here...

     Sometime in the morning the amoeba meanders in. The long white overcoats; silvery necklaces all hanging around their necks with some strange round amulet on one end and two places for listening on the other; charts folded and piled on top of one another; new faces - the amoeba has either grown or willfully killed one of it's own and replaced it efficiently; various dialects; no scarf this time...where did she go?
    "Good morning, Mr. Housewright!  Do you know where you are?  What day is it?  Do you know the month?  Who is the President?"
     Really!?  I have a Masters!  I know these stupid questions!  I may look like crap right now, but I am not dumb.  I hear the man next to me mumble something.  The nurses are trying to sooth him verbally and with smiles.  For the first time I am cognizant of this fact - the man next to me has had a major stroke.  He has lost the ability to speak.  He cannot move one side of his body.  Stroke.  Death of bodily members.  Long recovery.  Partial recovery.  Rehabilitation hospital.  Unable to function properly for the rest of his life.  No family in here for him.  Phone calls - alot - but no one to physically touch him and kiss him on the cheek or forehead.  The amoeba is speaking...

     "We have your results from your MRI last night and they show you have some type of brain lesion on the right front temporal lobe.  Also, your EEG showed decreased brain activity in that same area. We are not certain but that could mean one of three things:  an infection has set up in your brain; you are in the beginning stages of multiple sclerosis; or, of course, you have a tumor. We will need to perform more tests and analyze the data before we can be conclusive to what is going on."
     "What is a brain lesion?" I ask.
     "Gobble-dee-gook."
     "I'm sorry.  What does that mean in plain English?"
     "Blah, blah, blah, blah.  Blah. Blah."
     "Er, okay.  So, what is next?  What tests do you need to do?"...(I wish someone would tell me what a brain lesion is.  What about my low brain function?  What does that mean?  Some people would find it a miracle there is any brain function at all!)
    "We will need to do more blood tests.  We will possibly look at performing a lumbar puncture in order to remove spinal fluid.  That could possibly give us many answers.  Also, we will more than likely do another MRI, this time with contrast. Do you understand this?"
     I am 44 years old. Not too old (well, I suppose my teenage daughters might refute that claim) and not too young (my wife would certainly agree with the latter...).  Most information we receive goes in one orifice and out the other.  The ear hears a great deal of matter - but the heart and brain only listen to what is important to them.  This time, I am listening.  Intently.  With great interest.  Did I hear tumor?  Did I hear Multiple Sclerosis?  What the!?  I have two jobs!  I have a wife who leans upon me.  I have three children plus a foreign exchange student.  Three teenage girls and a boy who is in the first grade.  I don't have time for medical problems.  How incredibly rude is this moment!   How overwhelming. 
     It is precisely at this moment I realize Missy has been holding my hand through the entire conversation and lovingly caressing my arm.  She has been asking questions.  She is greatly concerned.  What must she be thinking...what is racing through her mind...would I be as gracious?  Would I be as caring and unselfish?  Probably not.  I am a self-centered and selfish man.  I have multiple degrees.  I work two jobs.  I am loved by people.  I am known in the community.  I. I. I. I. I.  Yes, the truth is, Missy is more of a Christian than I ever could hope to be.  She sees beyond herself.  Her needs, though many, are relegated to the "back burner."  Everybody else comes first.  Her heart and life completely describe what a Christian is to be, must be. 
     The rest of the day would pass by - slowly, but uneventfully.  I would get to see my kids and my mother-in-law. They would all hug me and assure me with encouraging and loving words.  But, it was the physical touch of their hugs that would propel me through the rest of the week.  I did not know or have any idea what I would have to deal with.  In the hospital, it is always better to not know - you are fretting and worrying enough.  Hindsight being what it is, I am extremely glad no one told me that day what Thursday night would bring.  Some things are better left unknown.  And, if you end up in the hospital for any extended period of time...where tests would cause great pain...and you are alone ...might I suggest memorizing the Word of God?  The next day would bring many Scriptures to mind and lips, but none would mean more than the words - "Yeah, though I walk through the valley of death..."
     ps- I would find out later that evening that some former members of the congregation we worship and serve with were phoning one another and stating that this was God's doing and he was somehow exacting revenge on me for things I have done. Unknowingly and without any of this information, Rev. Dr. Kevin Kinghorn, would graciously and wonderfully stand behind sacred desk for me the following Sunday.  His message?  Crisis in our lives are never brought on by God to get back at us for sin in our lives.  God is awesome...and God is always on time.