Faith and Prayer

Ever since my first blog post, I have been debating as to whether or not to blog about today's topic. There are many reasons I have come up with as to why I shouldn't tell this story, but there are also many reasons as to why I should. It is a very personal story. But I am sharing my faith today, and thus, I will share this story.
Let me begin by saying this. I am a very religious and spiritual person. I haven't always been. I grew up the son of a preacher. Anyone who has ever spent much time in church knows preacher's kids are the worst. And I was a typical preacher's kid. What I was and what I am are two very different things.
This story begins in my Junior year in college. I was an absolute hellion. Looking back on things, I very much would consider myself to have been an alcoholic. At least one beer a day. At least 5 nights a week I would get absolutely blasted. By blasted I mean a minimum of either a full suitcase of beer followed by multiple shots of literally anything; or somewhere along the lines of at least a pint of whatever I could get my hands on. I didn't drink to have fun (even though I usually did), I drank to completely erase my brain.
[On a side note, if you haven't already, be sure to read my previous blog entry. The combination of excessive head trauma as well as excessive drinking has certainly had a lasting effect. Just ask my wife.]

I remember, not necessarily very clearly, one particular weekend. It was a Saturday evening. The previous night had been one of epic proportions, even by my standards. I had woke up that morning with the typical headache, cotton mouth, and upset tummy. Generally by lunch I would be fine. But, this day was different. My stomach stayed a little upset. I had this sort of uneasiness just below my sternum. It didn't hurt. It was just uncomfortable. I didn't pay it that much attention and prepared myself for that evening's foray into the world of alcohol. I do not remember that evening at all. I have heard stories recounted by friends. I might blog about those stories someday. For now they remain window dressing for this story. I woke up Sunday, as normal, sometime around noon. Tiny little men stabbing me behind my eyes. A full blown Category 5 hurricane in my gut. I spent the rest of that day as normal (who here remembers the good ole PS1?). But, that same uneasiness in my gut remained. For the next week, I continued to notice that same uneasiness. After a week or so it went from being an uneasy feeling to being somewhat uncomfortable. After a couple of weeks it went from uncomfortable to a slight dull ache. It was a t that point I decided I might need to tone down the drinking. I cut the binges down to Saturday nights only and cut back to no alcohol at all at least 4 days out of the week. After this cut back I noticed how I felt so much better 99% of the time (amazing, huh?). Unfortunately, though, this cut back did nothing to eliminate the pain in my gut. After another couple of weeks this dull ache turned into more of a stabbing pain. I also noticed this pain was worse when I ate or drank(anything). I finally went to the doctor. He said I had acid reflux and gave me a prescription. I took the pills and changed my diet(outside of the drinking) as the doctor ordered. A few more weeks go by and nothing changes. Actually, the pain was getting worse. I also began to notice that I was having trouble swallowing when I ate. As a few more weeks passed, this trouble swallowing became much worse, as did the pain. I began to get scared. My mind raced at night trying to come up with some reasoning for the bizarre behavior of my innards. After another week or so, the trouble I was having with swallowing got worse. I began choking on food. No matter what I did, I could not swallow solid food. I was on a liquid only diet and not by my own desire. My body had forced it on me. I was obviously quite scared. But, I was even more scared of going to the doctor.

After a week or so on the liquid diet, my friends and family began to notice my weight loss. I am by no means a large fella. I've been 6'3" since high school and never topped 185 lbs. So when I lose weight, it is noticeable. After much yelling and screaming by my family, and an entire night of crying and screaming by my then girlfriend, I finally agreed to go to the doctor. I got an appointment for Tuesday afternoon. I didn't sleep at all Monday night. I skipped all my classes on Tuesday. Time for the appointment came and off I went to see the doc. After much poking and prodding and 20 bazillion questions, the doc ordered me to the hospital the next day for an upper GI and CAT scan. He never mentioned what he thought it might be. Even with me questioning him, he would say nothing more than he "needed to see the test results". Do you know how maddening, and scary, that is? Once again, I didn't sleep at all Tuesday night. For the first time in many many years I said a prayer. I asked God to heal me. I didn't know what else to say. I got up Wednesday morning and went to the hospital. I spent the better part of that day in one of those humiliating gowns. The CAT scan wasn't too bad. Really just boring. The upper GI was horrible. Barium shakes... yummy. The actual barium itself wasn't horrible. The problem came up when the doc told me to start actually swallowing it. It wasn't until this point that I realized that I had not tried to eat or swallow anything other than water for nearly 48 hours. I had been so concerned about this that I hadn't even though about eating. As I tried to swallow the first time I felt the barium sliding down my gullet. But then it stopped. I could tell it didn't go into my stomach. I swallowed another drink. Same thing again. The doc steps out from behind the monitor and looks at me. He says, "Are you doing OK?" I slowly shook my head yes. He asks me to swallow again. I take a good long tug on the straw and swallow as hard as I can. As I get the barium in my mouth half way down my throat, I gag. Instantly reflexes take over. I leaned to the side and put my head in the trash can. Only thing is, I didn't actually throw up. I just leaned over and the barium poured out of my mouth. No tensing of the gut muscles. No horrendous noises or horrible taste in the mouth. It just came back out. At that point the doc told me to stop messing with the barium and to go to the restroom to wash my mouth out. He told me they would send the results to my PCP and so I was done.

 It was a full 24 hours before I heard from my PCP. I should say it was an agonizing 21 hours and 34 minutes. He was very straightforward and very monotone on the phone. "I need you to come to my office immediately." I didn't even bother to ask why. I knew he wouldn't say. It took me almost an entire year to drive from my parents' house to his office. Time was at a dead stand still. I was fuzzy headed. I still don't even remember if anybody went with me to his office. I walked in and the receptionist (whom I had known for years) gave me a look of sympathy like you see people giving family members at a funeral. She jumped out of her chair and asked me to follow her. She sat me in one of those typical doctor's office rooms. Cold and pale. It was late November and I felt like a chameleon in that room. The doc walks in an eternity later. My doc was a former military surgeon. You can take the man out of the military but never the military out of the man. He had always been very blunt and somewhat cold in dealing with me. I don't think they teach any classes on bedside manner in the military. He looks me dead in the eyes and puts his hand on my shoulder. His hand was as warm as a furnace. I could see genuine concern all over his face. He opened his mouth to speak. Initially nothing came out. He put his head down very briefly and then looked back up at me and said, "I believe you have stomach cancer." He might as well have smacked me in the side of the head with an iron skillet. My ears literally started ringing. I felt like I had just stepped off the Gravitron. Complete disorientation. I don't remember anything else he said after that. I don't even remember getting home that afternoon. I remember my family sitting in the living room crying that evening. There were several moments my mom bordered on being hysterical. Then my dad stood up. My dad has a real problem with incongruent facial expressions. His "serious" face is exactly the same as his "mad as all get out" face. He looks at me, then looks at my mom, then looks at my sister. Long pauses as he briefly stares at us. Then he says, "Its time to pray." It was the most eloquent prayer I have ever heard. We spent the next couple of hours in the living room praying that evening. For what was probably the first time, I truly opened my mind and heart to God. I prayed so hard. My parents spent the rest of that night on the phone talking to everyone they knew asking for prayers for me. It wasn't until just before midnight my dad suggested I head on to bed since I had surgery the next day. Through that whole evening, even as I prayed, I had forgotten about surgery the next day. I never once asked God to help me through the surgery. I just prayed that he heal me. I'm not sure if it is ironic or not, but I had even forgotten about the pain in my gut. The next day I arrived at the hospital with my parents and sister. My girlfriend and several friend arrived soon after us. As I was watching the dead trees pass by that cool November morning. I prayed one last time for God to heal me. I hadn't even noticed that the pain in my gut was bordering on non-existent. Maybe I had so much on my mind that it just didn't bother me. I got checked in and the surgeon explained to me and the folks what would happen. It was what would generally be an outpatient procedure- an endoscopy. They were just going to stick a tube down my throat while I was knocked out to take a look around and then snip off a piece of the tumor to find out more about it. I would stay in the hospital for the next day as they decided whether or not to do major surgery or go straight into chemotherapy. Either way I would be spending at least one night in the hospital. Going under for surgery is so funny. "This shot is going to make your heart beat a little faster." Like a freakin jackrabbit! "I'm about to give you the next shot. Start counting backwards from 100. Tell me if you get past 85." 100...99...zzzzzzzzzzzzz

I wake up. Its very dark. I must have stayed under for a while. Man am I disoriented. I try to sit up and feel something brush against my arm as I sit up. I expect to hear someone tell to lay back down. Nothing. I open my eyes. I am laying on my parents couch in the living room. I'M ON MY PARENTS COUCH IN THE LIVING ROOM!!!! Was it a dream? To real. Couldn't have been. Why am I at home? WHY DID THEY SEND ME HOME!!!??? Something went wrong. Something is wrong. THEY SENT ME HOME TO DIE IN PEACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OH NO!!! I am going to die. I said a prayer. I prayed so hard for God to forgive me of my sins and if I was going to die soon to take me into Heaven. I got up. A tidal wave of emotions hit me square in the face. I can't hold it back. I absolutely break down. So many emotions over the past month. I cried. I didn't cry, I wailed. My mom and dad walk in and turn the lights on. They see me laying crumpled in the floor a broken man. My mom jumps to my side with my dad right behind her. They never even asked if I was OK. They just laid there and cried with me. After a few minutes I finally manager to utter, "I can't believe I am about to die." As soon as I say that, both my parents sit straight up. I hear my dad cough. Wait... that wasn't a cough. I look up and he is chuckling. My mom is smiling. What the hell is wrong with these sick and twisted people!!!??? My mom says, "You don't remember do you?" What is she talking about? Remember what? "You don't have cancer." Huh? What? Wait a minute. What is going on? They proceed to fill me in on the details of what happened after surgery. Apparently I was semi-conscious for this conversation, but not enough to remember it. When the doctor went in with the tube he found nothing. After surgery they did a CAT scan, and it was gone. The doctor and surgeon's words- "A miracle." I refuse to use that word. I call it an answered prayer. I saw that same doctor for another 3 years before I moved. He told me numerous times about mentioning my story to other doctors. He had even had other doctors look at my Upper GI, Cat scan, and X-rays. They all agreed that there was a tumor there. But after that night of prayer, it wasn't.

Take this story however you wish. If you are a non-believer, I hope this piqued your curiosity. If you do believe, I hope this inspired and encouraged you. Whichever the case, may God bless you as he has blessed me.