The human body is amazing.
Nearly two gallons of blood is pumped through our bodies daily. Like budding leaves on the ends of trees, human lungs contain 600 million aveoli - enough to cover a tennis court - that filter carbon dioxide and process the oxygen we breathe. The average person's largest organ, skin, covers about 22 square feet and is one of our first protectors against the outside world.
Really, we are amazing creatures. Not only in our ability to live, think, contribute, but also in our abilities to heal.
Healing. To heal. To make whole. To repair. Physicially, cells regenerating to replace or repair damaged cells.
There's all kinds of healing and methods to get there: spiritual healing, physical healing, emotional healing; wound healing, the healing of a broken heart, wholistic healing, faith healing, self healing.
Okay, we get it. So what are you getting at, Shannon?
I had a doctor appointment today, and received for the first time since July good news.
It appears that the abscess on my remaining ovary is responding positively to the antibiotics. My doctor kneeds on my abdomen like a kitten. For once, I do not wince in pain. In fact, I'm in no pain. I feel better than I've felt in three months.
I return next week for one more ultrasound, just to be sure.
To think that not even six weeks ago, I underwent a complicated abdominal surgery that sent me into a tailspin near death is unfathomable...and absolutely astounding. So many times in those first couple weeks after that surgery I didn't think I could hold out, muddle through. So many times I thought my life would never be the same again. And, actually quite quickly, in five and a half short weeks, I feel like myself again.
The antibiotic I still take daily leaves a horrible taste in my mouth that stubbornly holds on despite the strongest, longest dose of Listerine. But that's okay. There are worse side effects. And it's a small price to pay to keep my remaining ovary and have my life back.
But it's not just that mauve pill I take nightly that heals me.
I believe I am healed by each breath I take toward wholeness.
I believe I am healed by that tiny tiger moving through my veins, from the simple act of positive, forward thinking.
I believe I am healed by the love and light sent my way from friends and family near and far.
I believe I am healed from a Light that shines.
I believe I am healed every time I step outside, to see my children, my dogs, the trees, the sky...
And I believe the human body is a truly miraculous thing. And I am so thankful.
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Do I dare disturb the universe?
"Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
T.S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Every time I am on the water, I think this same thought: with every touch of the tip of my paddle, I am disturbing an entire universe. From fishes to turtles to plant life to the tiniest micro-organism, just the simple, slightest movement of my paddle stirs it all.
At first, I never want this evening to end.
Finally back in my kayak. I threw caution to the wind this evening and headed out to the water. How I've missed my time on the water, paddle in hand, the steady rocking hip-to-hip row, row, row in perfect rhythm, nothing out there but me and several hundred species of animal.
I am rowing like this, poised and peaceful, simultaneously calling to a Bard owl somewhere in a forested distance and chasing a Blue Heron when I receive the phone call.
I had my second CAT scan Monday, the follow-up appointment with the doctor today.
In the office, the radiologist hadn't yet given the reading to my doctor. She promised a call, reassuring that, more than likely, the abscess in my pelvis had receded.
"It is very unlikely that it's grown," she said.
Schools of tiny water insects skim across the lake in zig-zag formation as I answer the call.
"Remember how I said it was very unlikely that the abscess has grown?" she says from the other end of the line.
"Well, true to form, you're the one case to go against the odds."
A painted turtle paddles under the surface, his thick, clawed feet moving like slow rudders. My heart sinks.
"The report says the abscessed area has grown since the last scan, now over four centimeters," she continues.
I sit with the setting sun for a long time tonight. It was an amazing sunset - like orange sherbet scooped from God's own hand. I cried on the water. I felt and feel all these emotions: regret, fear, anger, sadness, helplessness.
There's nothing I can do.
Then, I hear the owl again, calling to me from the same forested distance - only now it's closer. I'm reminded, from nature, of just who I am, and more importantly, that it's not up to me. Again, I need this message.
The owl calls, "who cooks for you, who cooks for you.." in the infamous monkey-like call of the Bard owl. He asks me a good question.
I am floating in this water. And though I can paddle, steer, stay afloat, I am not in control. It's not up to me. The boat holds me, its buoyancy sturdy and strong. I let my weight rest in it, and let go.
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
T.S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Every time I am on the water, I think this same thought: with every touch of the tip of my paddle, I am disturbing an entire universe. From fishes to turtles to plant life to the tiniest micro-organism, just the simple, slightest movement of my paddle stirs it all.
At first, I never want this evening to end.
Finally back in my kayak. I threw caution to the wind this evening and headed out to the water. How I've missed my time on the water, paddle in hand, the steady rocking hip-to-hip row, row, row in perfect rhythm, nothing out there but me and several hundred species of animal.
I am rowing like this, poised and peaceful, simultaneously calling to a Bard owl somewhere in a forested distance and chasing a Blue Heron when I receive the phone call.
I had my second CAT scan Monday, the follow-up appointment with the doctor today.
In the office, the radiologist hadn't yet given the reading to my doctor. She promised a call, reassuring that, more than likely, the abscess in my pelvis had receded.
"It is very unlikely that it's grown," she said.
Schools of tiny water insects skim across the lake in zig-zag formation as I answer the call.
"Remember how I said it was very unlikely that the abscess has grown?" she says from the other end of the line.
"Well, true to form, you're the one case to go against the odds."
A painted turtle paddles under the surface, his thick, clawed feet moving like slow rudders. My heart sinks.
"The report says the abscessed area has grown since the last scan, now over four centimeters," she continues.
I sit with the setting sun for a long time tonight. It was an amazing sunset - like orange sherbet scooped from God's own hand. I cried on the water. I felt and feel all these emotions: regret, fear, anger, sadness, helplessness.
There's nothing I can do.
Then, I hear the owl again, calling to me from the same forested distance - only now it's closer. I'm reminded, from nature, of just who I am, and more importantly, that it's not up to me. Again, I need this message.
The owl calls, "who cooks for you, who cooks for you.." in the infamous monkey-like call of the Bard owl. He asks me a good question.
I am floating in this water. And though I can paddle, steer, stay afloat, I am not in control. It's not up to me. The boat holds me, its buoyancy sturdy and strong. I let my weight rest in it, and let go.
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