It was a bad day that ended well.
And any day when you’re troubled to the marrow of the bone that can catch a glint of sun through the shadows that haunt us all is by its very definition a good day.
Some 24 hours after having urologist Lawrence Wolkoff poke three holes into my gut to extract four lymph nodes I was anxious, nervous over the prospects that the cancer I’m feeding has begun to pillage beyond the two tumors contained within my prostate.
As if the pressure waiting for a reply as to the biopsy were not enough the stress of what the good doctor and his staff said regarding post-surgical ticks was becoming a heavy hammer blow. Small things, you know, like when you head for the loo to “make water” and the stream becomes a fiery icicle.
Not pleasant, I assure you. At least that plumbing was in order, however.
More uncomfortable to deal with – and not any easier to discuss – is the traffic jam backed up in the colon. This rather sad state of affairs is the dog that hunts me whenever I have to go under the knife and get some sleepy-time juice poured into my blood system by a smiling anesthesiologist like Dr. John Hagopian.
(As an aside Dr. John would later tell me that the whole operation was “rather boring,” which gives an entirely favorable meaning to the word, I assure you.)
In any event here I am with a bladder that sloshes to the point of being dangerously topped off along with a digestive system that is held hostage by one very nasty road block.
And still no word from Wolkoff as to what the pathologist found – or hopefully didn’t find - by examining a quartet of lymph nodes arrested from the prostate’s neighborhood.
The day, in short, stunk.
Fortunately God was not done for the day, or with me, as it turned out.
Enclosed by a chain-link network of people who have sent their best wishes and thoughts my way I am in good hands. And with countless prayers ascending heavenward as a sweet savor offering I consider it an honor that Bev and me are so bundled in such love.
First came dinner, prepared some time ago by a cadre of women who attend our church; Bible Community Church of Mentor, to be exact.
These women of the church’s Heart and Hands group anticipate that sooner or later a church family would undergo a trial and might like having a meal awaiting nothing more then being nuked in a microwave oven.
These fine ladies have a keen eye on such things.
So do the men and boys of the church’s congregation. The lads are part of Bible Community’s Christian Service Fellowship. They meet briefly on Wednesday evening and then launch themselves into some service opportunity, mating their grunt work with a member’s need.
In our case that invitation was to spread five tons limestone gravel; about two tons to be confined within a 9-foot-by-12-foot corral of landscaping timbers and the rest to gloss over the low spots in our driveway.
The frame is for the base to support a new shed that will occupy the space and assembled there by my two older brothers. No doubt Terry and Rich will argue as to how best assemble that shed as well as chase me away without even allowing me to supervise their work. Which is fine, considering that how older brothers are suppose to act.
As for the church lads they attacked the small mountain of dusty limestone, carting enough fill to flood the wooden frame to its brim.
At that point they worked to raise the driveway’s low spots.
Remember that scene in the 1960s movie “Cool Hand Luke” where Paul Newman leads his fellow chain gang inmates into feverishly tossing gravel onto a rural road’s freshly laid tar?
Well, that is what the lad’s tribal elders Scott Stabler and Alex Mclean had their six youngsters perform. A little late to arrive but still tossing some pretty mean-sized coal shovels of stone of his own was Dustin James.
Before one could say “what we have here is a failure to communicate” the team was finished. Not only was the shed’s future home prepared but better than one-half of the driveway was smoothed over with a fresh deposit of crushed limestone.
The kids especially enjoyed the grilled hotdogs, cans of soda and being able to grab fistfuls of chips, cookies and pretzels that Bev had made ready
Storms of tears began to well up as Bev and I thanked them, one and all.
Not just because of the cheap labor, either; rather because of their unspeakable gift of brotherly compassion.
It’s been a tough sled ride and I can still see a dark line of clouds out on the horizon. But at least I am comforted in knowing that somewhere behind it all is a silver lining, sewn there by Heaven’s Master and never forgotten by those who will never let me – or Bev – forget that we are loved.
Hopefully, prayerfully, I will have good news to report at the next meeting here.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
No comments:
Post a Comment