Sunday, March 1, 2015

Excerpt 5- Chapter 15 of My ArmOr



I wrote in FB, “When the ‘on call’ staff changed, another PA from the surgeon's team arrived; I realized that I met him at the hospital weeks earlier right before my operation.  He read my test results.  He said my temperature was normal, nothing bad appeared on the X-Rays, and my blood cultures were not really high in white blood count or other infection indicators.  He felt that possible bruising from working my arm too hard or local damage from surgery caused the weird appearance and occurrence on my upper arm.  To reassure himself of his findings, he felt around finding no pain or abscessing in the area.  Nothings in the healing process felt unusual; that man found no unusual discharge.  My three scars felt and looked fine so the guy discharged me from that hospital’s ER.”
Before being released from the medical facility, a staff member filled out some forms asking me name, rank, and serial number.  At some point he asked, “Occupation?”
Julie reminded me often to stop denying my career, “Most authors don’t earn livings writing but you are still a writer so say so.”
Remembering her past scolding, I answered, “Inspirational writer!”  Nervously laughing while pointing at my shoulder, mocking myself occurred; “I know, right? Can you imagine a faith healing author looking like this?”  He politely wrote on my chart never denying that I might be able to heal faith with my text- in spite of how many fingers type it.
I continued jesting about every little thing to relive the tension and pressure of that ER experience as well as my predicament as my husband and I walked to the car at 9:30 that night, “What a roller coaster ride but I guess sometimes getting the cold shoulder is a good thing.”
Philosophically, I added to my Facebook entries, “During this ordeal, all I had left was DR. GOD.  Remembering that as my spirit prayed, I felt a cool sensation over my warm arm I thought, ‘His sign was right!  False alarm!’ The Master of the Universe pointed to being the final decision maker and in charge of it all. He left my arm- my left arm.’”
My reality started in the first ER; I did whatever it took to go home after my operation so that my husband could get peace.  Too recently, he’d sat vigil for both parents.  My husband had to make awful decisions about his dad's cancer in April 2008. Then, he had to help his stepfather make hard decisions about his mom's coma & pulling plugs in February 2009. Months after those two deaths, which were less than twelve months apart, I shattered my arm resulting in a major operation. My fall came too quickly on the heels of their deaths.
“I'm sorry,” came from my lips before they put me in each ambulance, after surgery, and every time he looked at me. Even if I didn’t speak those words aloud, I was sorry he had to make hard decisions, again. It felt too soon to be making choices about my arm and possible amputation; that day was the worst day of my life thus far, I stayed strong for him but wanted to wail in ER.  Plus, I wanted to cry since the ambulance ride to the first ER but kept my sanity with my fast wit and Heaven’s interventions; that’s the only explanation for my attitude as I walked out of the hospital after that nearly fateful night.
My poor kids worried about me enough. I kept Stacey from the hospital blaming her young daughter and her pregnancy.  It shielded her from the reality that my operation was a big deal.  She’d been through enough as a child as well as after her first birth.  She’d already seen me hospitalized right after her mom and dad left for Heaven.  It was too soon after all those traumas for this surgery and life changing event to happen to us as a family but especially to her- and me.
Therefore, as we awaited the infection results, my husband did not call the girls right away; we didn’t want extra worry.  He called our daughter that isn’t married and lives with us because she would notice our status upon returning home from work.  He didn’t tell her the seriousness of the situation.
She happened to see the neighbor that arranged all the meals into our home and mentioned that I was in the ER.  Unbeknownst to her, the lady was close friends with Stacey.  She texted my other kid, “What is wrong?  Why is Cindy in the hospital, again?”



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Monday, February 23, 2015

Excerpt 4- Chapter 15 of My ArmOr



Facing it- Third ER

The next entry is all about antibiotics, infection threats, and the ER at the hospital that my operation took place in.  Last Wednesday, I showed my Physical Therapist two red splotches about the size of a nickel near one of my scars while asking, ‘Should I be concerned?’ She recommended I call the DR to ask.  His nurse told me to come in if it got larger, redder, fierier, etc.”
“I felt it was the same- not better or worse- on Friday when I went to Physical Therapy.  Both Occupational Therapists that work together on my case felt that cutting my session short was warranted because they echoed one another, ‘You need to go to the doctor, now!’”
“On Friday, September 18, in the afternoon, my husband called in to the surgeon’s office that we were coming.  When we arrived, the office was closed but someone called back to tell us to go to the ER of the hospital of my surgery because their trauma staff was on duty there, for the week-end!  We waited from 2:30 to 5PM before making it past triage to their ER DR.  That man scared us talking about the possibilities of being admitted for another operation.  This procedure would save the patient but not the apparatus that appeared to be infected.” I knew he meant my arm would be amputated; this procedure would preempt the fatal infectious strike that a bacterium tried to take against my immune system.
My Facebook explanation of that day continues, “Immediately, on his heals came the Intern or Physician’s Assistant (PA) from my trauma orthopedic surgeon’s office; he answered the preliminary call.  He said some similar things about square one and referencing amputation but said that it didn't appear to be a deep infection.  He even commented that it quite possibly was not even a bacterium.  That man snapped some cell pictures to send to his colleagues while ordering tests to see if I was fighting a major infection.”
“I had not had a drink since 11:30 AM; my veins are hard to play vampire with on a good day.  One girl, a specialized nurse gave up trying to draw blood. Her associate retried a different vein.  The third nurse pulled enough blood for the lab.  My DR, also, required X-Rays; so off I went knowing if this was bad it was worse.”
As I traipsed behind a nurse who pushed my IV pole, my humor continued, “I look like a puppy on a leashing being walked to the pound.”  This joke helped my heart slow its nervous pounding.  Connected to a wheeled IV, I walked behind the nurse pushing my lifeline.  My Humerus might be waning; and my arm might disappear but my humor prevailed along with my faith. I joked, “Leashed to this thing, I look like a puppy following its master.”  The lady smiled motioning me to a chair to await my turn.
“I can’t do this anymore,” A dark woman whined and sobbed as an orderly coaxed her into drinking more yuck so it would highlight her cancer travels.  “It’s all over and I’m all alone.  Just let me go home!”  She begged as I instinctively knew she prayed for Paradise not her earthly dwelling.
In the MRI waiting room, being fully coherent and painkiller drug free, I looked at that elderly soul.  She gagged on fluid that would help staff trace her possible cancer spread, “I don’t care if it is moving to other organs; I just want to die!”  She looked my direction, “I have no family left to care for me; just let me go to Heaven, today.”
Her pleas were so sad.  When is hope gone, when is enough medical intervention enough, when does modern medicine make it worse instead of better?  How will I feel if my arm goes, and they try to save my life?  What did I do when I forced my mother to keep doing chemo long after her cancer won but her body wouldn’t quit?  My mind rambled through my rhetorical analysis as I walked out of that room.
My FB entries resume here, “After that series of events and thoughts, another staff member moved me to a waiting area where I sat praying but it was weird my mind kept singing God’s Praise similar to when I heard the sounds of Heaven when my mom died.”
This whole ordeal reminded me of my mom’s last days when I stood alone in the hallway mad at God for His Plan. He sent a message.  My ears heard choirs of angels; this memory showed me Heavenly chanting. Their musical happened, again, as I awaited my test results in the ER that day.
In my FB, I added, “Suddenly, I pictured Wavie!”  We worked on her book about surviving a fourteen day coma.  After a near fatal car accident, she was delivered back to the earth by God but not before learning why He wanted her to return to this world.  She, also, witnessed Heaven, Hell, and this world- almost simultaneously while comatose.
In the same thought, I witnessed Anne's faith healing saga.” We co-wrote her faith healing story including how Anne stopped bleeding after The Presence in her hospital room repaired her body.  These two women believed in faith healing.  Thus, my Facebook entries illuminated my private thoughts as I awaited my fate.
“While envisioning my possible outcomes, I felt a ‘coldness’ come over the hot area in question.  My mind warned me repeatedly that the fired up feeling might mean infection. Thus, the cool relief coming over that inflamed area spread to overall relief because I felt His message was that this ER day was a short setback not the worst case scenario about to occur.”
Like Wavie and Anne, I wanted to believe it but call me a ‘Doubting Tom’ or a person that has misunderstood dreams and visions in the past. In spite of my human frailty especially in areas of trust, I privately through prayer thanked My Master for touching my shoulder while hoping for the best including that what I sensed was not a delusion.




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