Twelve Months

 “LORD my God, I called to you for help, and you healed me.”  — Psalm 30:2

I missed the exact moment.  I guess I'm kind of glad I did.  I think it might have been a bit overwhelming, and considering I was at work, I reckon had I started blubbering when the weight of it hit me, someone might have reported me for suspicion of drug use.

So it has been exactly a year (and a few hours) since the team of magic workers at Lake Charles Memorial Hospital went outside of their tight protocols and pulled me off the ventilator I had been on for a week.  Successfully, I might add.

Actually, I probably didn't need to add that.  This would have been one amazing blog had it not been successful.  Tales from the dark side.

Hazy as it was, I have relived—Lord, I love that word—the hours and days following that moment a thousand times over the past year.  I am grateful.  And mad.  Even a little ashamed.

The grateful part is easy, obvious.  The reality of having both a purpose here on earth and the opportunity to pursue that purpose makes me so thankful that it is knee-buckling.  I remember getting to attend the end-of-year banquet for my son's Corps outfit at A&M just a few weeks after my discharge from the hospital, picking up Birdie the Bulldog that same weekend.  I was so elated to open the door to my office at work when I finally received medical clearance to return.  And, oh man, that first time I stepped into our rental house after Brandy and Nash picked me up from the hospital!

This could get boring really quickly if I were to even attempt to highlight every moment of thankfulness I have experienced since about midday on March 9, 2021.  Suffice it to say, I am beyond grateful.

But I'm a bit angry, too.  I have always prided myself on my great health.  I could listen with earnest interest when people told me about a surgery or an ER visit or, heaven forbid, an incident requiring a hospital stay.  "Wouldn't know," was a completely truthful response whenever someone would begin with, "You know how when you are in the hospital..."  I can't say that now.  And COVID is like a hangover following a Boone's Farm and Old English reunion:  even after it's over, it really ain't over.  Effects far removed from the pulmonary impacts linger, annoyingly, like a drunk uncle at a wedding reception.  I have hardly any feeling in my left ankle and foot.  And my eyesight took a hit, too; I had 20/20 vision the week before I got sick.  Now I need to emulate Stretch Armstrong to be able to tell the time on my watch.

The worst, though?  Shame.  When the haze of whatever chemicals flowed through the numerous tubes stuck in my body finally cleared enough to realize just what had happened, I resolved to live just as the circumstances presented:  like someone who had escaped the clutches of death with a chance to be a beacon.  Instead I feel like a beat-up flashlight with old batteries, far from a shining beam.  I have begged forgiveness from both God and my closest family and friends for failing in this area.

But I'm trying.  Lord, I am trying.  We are road-tripping in the RV with regularity, and I don't stress about what isn't getting done while we are gone.  Despite having a price tag that would rival a small vault in Fort Knox, I refuse to get bent out of shape while we are rebuilding our house.  (Curse you, Laura.)  While my oldest son was home and wanted to go fishing late this past summer, I made it happen.  I catch myself not saying or showing thanks sometimes when Brandy has gone all-out as she juggles homeschooling and housekeeping and project management, among so many other things, and I make sure to correct myself, albeit in arrears.  I dropped a minor mint on Sugar Bowl tickets, just because my boys wanted to attend.

With fear, I committed myself and two arthritic and very painful knees to getting back into the gym.  Since the first of the year, I have averaged at least six days a week for an hour or more.  I am now lifting more than I did in high school and college, and today I had a doctor visit and my blood pressure was the lowest it has been in probably two decades, save of course for when I lived on banana bags with a tube down my throat.

Despite the happenings in the world theatre—clearly a comedy, and a bad one—and economic collapse and a be-neutral-or-die society, I am still breathing.  I still get to be more pissed off than a Sierra Club member stuck behind a logging truck leaking oil when I do my taxes.  I still have the opportunity to have heartburn when I see an insurance bill.  I still get a chance to help out with the Mediterranean Festival at St. Michael the Archangel Antiochian Orthodox Church.

I'm still here.

I look forward to hearing from you!