My black Hoka slippers pointed toe-first under the bed frame. Just to get out of the bed was a feat. Though inches away from my feet as I worked the morning’s covers off me, it took minutes to retrieve my right leg out from under the covers and lay it down over my side of the bed and eventually fit both feet in the slippers and try to stand. In the back of my mind I was seeing snippets of “The Oldest Man” clock repair skits with Tim Conway and Harvey Corman from The Carol Burnett Show I laughed at so many evenings as a boy, where Conway would shuffle across his office floor at the speed of congealed mud. But I wasn’t laughing now, as much I may’ve wanted.
Eventually I got both legs over the edge of the bed and into my slippers. My prayer was that, upon standing, I’d not collapse onto the bedroom carpet. My right ankle was staggeringly sore and weak. This latest injury summoned levels of pain I have not experienced heretofore. Kidney stones didn’t compare. Right shoulder, rotator cuff, and torn bicep surgery didn’t even compare. And the Army doctors had put me on Oxycodone after that ordeal. But this pain was worse. Incomparably worse.
Yesterday, my wife drove me to Atlanta to a spinal clinic for an injection. The doctor wanted to send me for an MRI, too, but it was going to be days before I could even get in for that, he said. No dice. I could not wait days. We went back to my physical therapist. She dry-needled my glutes, sacrum, and right leg. She manipulated my leg muscles, my glutes, my back, and my core muscles. When I arrived at her office, I shuffled like “The Oldest Man” Tim Conway character. After the first visit, I could walk without crying. I know pain tolerance is individual, and I know some tough guys and gals, but this nerve pain was like nothing I could have imagined. It felt like electric volts were flashing through my back, right leg, ankle, and foot. My wife watched tears roll down my cheek as I curled into the fetal position on my left side in efforts to find relief. When at the spinal doctor’s office earlier, I’d had to collapse onto the floor on all fours like a baby. Meanwhile, the doc sat on a rolling stool and asked me how my pain level was on a scale from one to ten. I said, “Eleven.” But he didn’t laugh. I’m done with that guy. He may be good with spines but he’s awful with people.
Since slipping on my sandals this morning, I’ve been able to do little but shuffle like the Tim Conway character and let Ladybug, our Cavalier King Charles spaniel, sleep on my chest. She seems to sense I’m hurting, and she’s been my constant companion. I could not go to Sunday school or church today, and Sunday is my favorite day of the week. It’s when we get to gather with the saints and sing and pray and fellowship and sit under the preaching of the Word. My associate pastor at Christ Covenant Church (3cs-canton.org) preached through more of the pastoral epistles and even served the Lord’s Supper today to our people. Many from the church reached out via texts and emails to minister to me. For all of that concern I am grateful.
Since I was unable to gather with the body, I read Scripture this morning outside in the early morning sun. I read the Book of Nehemiah and saw once again how God was faithful to his covenant promises and how Nehemiah and others rebuilt the wall. There was opposition, of course, but that is the way ministry goes–then, now, and always.
I sat outside and watched the birds fly to my birdfeeder, peck at seeds, dive for sunflower seeds, then flutter off to nearby limbs to eat and watch me as I watched them. Our neighbors saw me shuffling like a geriatric outside and asked if they could do anything for me. No, I said. Just pray my physical therapy works. We exchanged small talk for a bit and I afterwards shuffled back to my chair to read some more and watch the birds and miss my wife and church family.
What’s the point? Is it to wallow in self-pity? No. It’s that I’m learning how fragile life can be. Bones give way; ankles roll; knees lock; discs move–sometimes the wrong ways. And just like that, everything can change. You find yourself helpless. People ask to help but there really is not much most of them can do but tell you that they’ve been there, too, so to speak. Everyone has a story. I guess this one’s mine.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to work tomorrow. I’ve already missed two days due to this injury. And my wife is the first to tell you that I need to work. I don’t do well when I’m not working. I love what I do, and if I have to sit on a couch or lie in bed, I make everyone around me as miserable as I am. Admittedly, I’m a horrible patient. I need to be doing. But here I am, trying to read, to write, watching the birds, listening to Ladybug snore on my chest.
Let me end with some encouragement, though. For the physical therapist, Kari, you’ve blessed me already. I’d never been dry-needled before but you’ve made a believer out of me. I’ll see you tomorrow evening for my next round of therapy. Joe, my chiropractor, I cannot thank you enough for your work on my back and knees. And most of all to Carrie Jane, you’ve watched me crawl on all fours like a bear because I could not stand; you’ve watched me curse my condition and beg God to remove this pain, and I’ve been a horrible grouch, but you’ve stuck with me. And to my church family, thank you–for praying, texting, emailing, etc. and for pressing on with glorifying God through all circumstances.
It was when I pulled out of the driveway that I knew. I knew I had to write it. Let me explain. She was sitting there with the dogs, watching me pull away to drive south again to Fort Benning for surgery this Thursday. I knew I had to write it. I can get it across on the page, things I don’t say as often or as well as I should—namely, that I am grateful for her, for her steadfastness, for her loyalty, for her feistiness, for her prayer life, for her deftness at organizing our lives, and on and on. I had to write it. To write what exactly? A paean to my wife who makes me better than I would otherwise be.
MIND & MATTERS 