Deliver Us From...

She fell into the winter with a carcass covered in layers and layers of beautiful brown fat. 

Lovely layers hanging low, covering wounds inflicted over a thousand years.

Battles fought, some won, some lost but each one leaving behind a wide wake of damage.

Each step out onto a fresh killing field, leaving yet  more scars. 

Stabs that twisted and turned, leaking blood at every orifice .

Stabs that punctured organs nestled deep within a frame so battered and bashed that it  knew mostly, only pain.

She had endured pain so intense that all that remained were scars healed, covered over and buried within yet another layer of fat. 

Wounds from the back.

Wounds from the side. 

Wounds inflicted with a smile that looked like love but hid vials of evil poisonous venom slowly dripping into a system taxed beyond its endurance.

The final blow came as she poured water into a glass teapot. With no warning, the bottom of the teapot cracked, emitting an ominous scream. Boiling hot water poured over her body. In a state of shock, she dropped the pot, grabbed her dress and as she peeled the steaming mass of material from her body,  realized that she was also removing scalded skin.

She almost panicked but managed to remember that she would be seeing her doctor later on that day for a different issue. She dressed the extensive damage as best as she was able and took to her bed, deciding sleep might be the best medicine. She knew she could endure the pain for the two hours before her scheduled appointment.

Two hours later, as the doctor entered the examination room expecting to treat several boils, the shocked look on his face was her first clue that her injuries may have been more severe than she imagined.

As she lifted her blouse he gasped, “I thought you had boils.”

“I do, but this kind of happened in the meantime.”

He barely was able to stop from rolling his eyes. 

This man fully understood her aversion to the medical system, pharmaceuticals and a dread of  buildings where a certain percentage of people entered expecting a cure and never left. He had come to a begrudging tolerance of her stubbornness and insistence that she knew her own body better than he. That though she respected his medical experience, he did not know what it felt like under her skin. She had come to trust him and he her.

He chastised her for not seeking help sooner and began doing his best to treat her injuries.

He ordered antibiotics for the boils, went off to his supply room returning with enough bandages and dressings for her to take home and treat herself. He knew the futility of suggesting seeking home care but insisted he wanted to see her in two days. She agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. She knew the wounds were a little beyond her capacity and simply trusted that her amazing immune system would do the best job.

He insisted on seeing her several times over the following week and was somewhat satisfied that her body was repairing itself and that his patient was indeed a fine nurse. More importantly, she was a good patient and knew when to throw  in the towel.

His one concern was her approach to pain management. 

She had allowed herself to be convinced by some well meaning friend that she was activating her addictions by using drugs to deal with the severe pain of boils plus second and third degree burns. 

She’d had ongoing debates with this person over the years regarding her use of marijuana butter to alleviate arthritic injuries in her legs, knees that were bone on bone with little or no cartilage to protect them and osteophytes in her hip that x-rayed as small shards of glass the size of a fingernail.

At seventy-two, weighing in at over 300 pounds she felt blessed to only have the arthritis. Many of her thinner friends carried their medication in a small fishing tackle box when they ate out.

Her own pain was, however, rather intense and she found some degree of relief from the use of marijuana and acetaminophen. She did her best to keep her use down and if the pain was under a level 5, was able to cope with bathing and rest. She only resorted to substance when the pain escalated and held to a level 10 for more than several hours. Even with a pain tolerance as high as hers was, she could only endure so much before she found herself entertaining thoughts of suicide. 

She was determined to tolerate the pain from the boils and the burn with no medications but found herself waking up from a deep sleep with her body shuddering involuntarily and her hands and feet ice cold. This cauldron of pain stirred up memories of old wounds and the double trouble was beyond her own devices.

When she relayed this information to her doctor, he sternly admonished her, “Do you not understand toxic shock syndrome?” 

She did understand, but had allowed her fears of addiction to cloud her better judgement.

 Her doctor managed to override these fears with the warning that sustaining that level of pain for great lengths of time could cause severe damage to her body.

She capitulated, went home, took her medicine and began the serious business of healing a badly damaged body with the assistance of medication.

Her routine gradually worked and by the end of the third week she was well on the way to being mended.

What took her by great surprise was her body’s refusal to pick up the old pace and let her get back to a routine of days packed with physical and emotional tasks.

It simply refused to co-operate and she had little choice but to fall exhausted onto her recliner and sleep a sleep of the dead for hours at a time.

Her rests became naps. Her naps became sleep and her sleeping resembled that of a coma victim.

She began to dream. 

Dreams of battles, blood and carnage. 

Faces rising up out of misty graves, shaking their bony fingers, whispering, “take care me girl, ye may not escape this one.”

She knew that this final battle was likely to be her  last. She knew the odds of surviving another were highly stacked against her.

What she came to understand was this, she wanted to live.

And so she began the arduous task of treating herself more kindly, more compassionately.

She began truly putting herself first, determined to put her own needs before those of others. 

She knew in every fiber of her being that though it felt selfish, she would lose her life and be of no assistance to anyone unless she were to succeed at this task. 

She knew that her determination had a price, acceptance.

She knew the paradox of turning her life over to a power greater than herself was the key to her redemption. She knew  that forgiveness, at a level unlike any she’d travelled to previously was the answer.

She fell to her knees, begged for that help and strongly resisted the voices that whispered, “You are so selfish, you think only of yourself, who the hell do you think you are? For God’s sake get up and vacuum and do the dishes.”

 She resisted all that which sought  to pull her down.

The winter slowly passed, she crawled through the final drifts, emerging into a glorious spring.

And she knew...life was good, life was glorious.

She knew deliverance.