Some Minor Updates
I’ve started writing several post entries in the last few days to no avail. I have so much I want to say and it is all coming to my head like vomit: forceful and not pretty. I know, vivid simile, right? Anyway, I feel like I need to get some stuff cleared off my head before I can figure out what I am wanting to write again.
My Testimony: Well, I gave my testimony at church a couple of weeks ago and I believed there was something lacking. I remember the last time I gave it, a very long time ago. Someone told me it lacked “the Gospel”. I understand that. I need to add a little more of what changed me, what made me realize I needed a savior, some verses. Something that would lead a person to understand that what I am speaking about is not logic and circumstances and coincidences, but a life transformed through the supernatural being that is God: Creator and Sustainer of Life! So I started writing “My Life, My Testimony: Part 2” only to hit a wall. I want to express that the second half of my youth was marked by being a sheep. I followed the crowd where it led me: the road of failure, of drugs, of thievery, of a life completely self-involved, yet the wolves led me, and to a lot of places I didn’t want to go. Why did I go there? Jesus says that His sheep recognize His voice, and follow Him. That is the verses I want to get to in “Part 2”, it’s just a matter of getting rid of all this other “stuff” in my head.
Gallbladder surgery: Yes, I had gallbladder surgery on Monday, and I am still recovering. I’m glad they finally might have discovered what was ailing me back in June when I went to the emergency room then. There is something spiritual in the suffering I put myself through on the Friday night prior to the surgery. I still had some hydrocodone from back in June. I took the last 2, yet suffered through another hour or more, before it brought any sort of relief. How long can we bare the suffering we create? How long will we suffer ourselves through it, believing that we, in our own power, can make it to the end? The suffering of life, the hardships we go through, how long will think we can make it through until the end. As I sit here typing, I am listening to Pandora and U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday” comes on. It is a live version and Bono belts out at the beginning that, “So many people have misinterpreted the meaning of this song.” I guess what he might be saying is wrapped up in the last lyric: “The real battle just begun: To claim the victory Jesus won.” But the whole thing is built up in this one: “The trench is dug within our hearts.” So, How Long? How long will we sing the song of just seeing this world as just rebellion and violence and wars, and give in to what Jesus has offered us? True life, a life with meaning. Perhaps this may be where I want to go with my testimony…
Drugs and the meaning of life: I have taken some fairly strong drugs in the last few days. Friday night, I had the last of the prescription of hydrocodone from the last emergency room trip in June. Once the pain started going away, I started having great, enlightening moments of true spiritual vision. I was a bit delirious from the pain, the weariness, and the drugs, that I saw deep spiritual meaning in all my wife would say or I would think. I’d tell my wife the vision I had and she would laugh that I could see so much in what was so insignificant. Ask me what the connections were now, and I would not be able to tell you. My wife asked me if this is what I was like when I took drugs in high school and college. I told her that, oh yeah, it definitely was. A lot of people I hung out with couldn’t stand being with me. They’d tell me to shut up or politely laugh and say I was just high. I knew the concepts I was coming across were littered with deep significance. I might not have been able express the thoughts I had, but being mocked, humored or scorned did not sit well with me: I would either push on in drugged determination, or huff and puff away from the derisive character to find someone who would listen. There are some “Strange Confessions” still to come from a few of these experiences, but I’ll be derned if I could recall any of these dreamlike conversations that solved all my concerns. I’d snatch at ideas slightly remembered only to have it dissolve like smoke in my fingertips like dreams.
My Hospital Partner: When I came into the emergency room on Sunday night, I would have done anything to get an immediate fix of pain-killing drugs that I’d received last time. I wormed and squirmed in emergency room 1, for what seemed like hours before the orders came through for the dilaudid. I moaned, “Oh God, make it stop, it hurts so bad, I hate it, why me, I’ve been so good…” or many other euphemisms of the desperate. So Monday night I received a roommate. He was a 68 year old man that claimed he broke his back. They wheeled him in from the emergency room at about 10:30pm, and for about a half an hour two men struggled with him, trying to get him in the bed. I heard all this from behind my curtain. He was moaning all night about how much it hurt, how he wanted someone to make it stop and moaning “Oh God!” the whole time. His nurse was very impatient and short with him. I was rolling my eyes and thinking about how horrible it was for them to put him in with me: a guy who really needed some sleep after surgery. I was listening every time the nurse or someone else came in, and found out a lot about him. His name was Gary, his wife Helen, and he had somehow injured his back, and was on a lot of drugs and very confused. He’d pull out his IV, and I’d call the nurse. He start sounding like he was getting up again, I’d call the nurse. Then he started to remind me of what I was like when I came in. He also reminded me of my Nana: she had an operation before her son died. She had found his bloated, overdosed body in the basement the morning after he’d died. She’d look at her wrists and with confusion ask what had happened. She was so confused, and she’d sit there, head in her hand, looking so lost. It really scared me. This man, Gary, was confused, hurt and lost. So, I decided it was time for me to talk to him. I’m sure it was extra confusing for him to hear a voice from the other side of a curtain, but I think it helped a lot. I’d hear him start to move around, and I’d call out his name, and tell him it’d be best if he just stayed where he was. He asked me to help him, and I told him I couldn’t: I was just another patient. I told him I knew his name, his wife’s name, why he was here, and that is was best to just relax and wait until morning, when his wife could come and they could figure out things better then. It was a fairly sleepless night for me, but I felt much better being able to help him, than to just think on him with animosity. I hope he is doing all right.
So as I sit here writing these entries, listening to Pandora playing some 60s, 70s and 80s stuff there is a song I am reminded of, and I think I haven’t heard it in a while, and it was one of my favorite songs. Although the philosophy behind it left a little to be desired. It was a time that The Police wore rags and such, looking like futuristic dregs with colorful style. Anyway, to continue the journey through the decade of music that greatly influenced me, here they are live, The Police with “Synchronicity”.
Here is to hoping I can get focused again!