Upon this rack

By Cindy Bailey, Waynesburg, Pa.

www.cindyswind.blogspot.com

   On the one hand, I have all the time in the world to think, read, and write, my three all time favorite things to do.

   On the other hand, I spend my day managing pain and trying to avoid further injury to an annoying muscle in my back that got injured, how, only God knows for sure.

   I had no idea that this obscure ligature controls not only everything down to both elbows, but also is now the evil despot controlling my life.

   My chiropractor who is not really an evil despot–contrary to my experiences in her care–but rather a friendly young woman who is not offended that I've never been handled by a person of her profession, despite my "advanced" age.  Nor is she puzzling over the cause of my unfortunate state, like House, the guy who isn't a doctor but plays one on TV and who always solves the oddball disease mysteries, saving the day.

   When I protest that I NEVER have had back problems, she shrugs and says "You're lucky." Which if I could form a fist, might change her luck a little.

   She gingerly comes after me with her man-hands like I go after a room full of public officials who've been oppressing the citizenry, jabbing my back bones into submission with frightening snaps, crackles, and pops, like my poison pen jabs holes in the arrogance of my friendly neighborhood self-serving servants. At least one reader tells me my editorials can be "brutal," a word that could also describe this otherwise nice person who puts me on a rack covered with clean tissue paper for me to drool (and bleed) on as she thrusts her entire weight upon my injuries, with her knee in my back, OK not really....
   After several whacks at me, she one day tells me I'm ready to go upstairs and "see George," otherwise known as Executive Assistant to the Grim Reaper, who dwells in Torture Chamber No. 2. You know, I could never have imaged that I would be seated upon a table with a full grown man who really does jab his knee in my back, while simultaneously folding my person backwards in HALF. He tells me he is "loosening me up." It's more like loosening one of the few marbles I have left. Oh sure, he tries to make me "comfortable," constantly explaining to me what he's doing, but I can't see his face to detect a smirk, yet I'm sure there is one, especially when he regales me with tales of his ex-wife, but I am stretching out this story a little too much. Pun intended.
   Well, I will grudgingly admit that there actually has been some improvement. They're doing the best they can; consider what (who) they have to work with!

   A maverick publisher who until now traveled my rural county far and wide in pursuit of truth (and scalps), my days currently consist of ice packs alternated with a heating pad and hot soaks in the tub, as well as a small,  shocking device meant to electrocute me little by little, I think, not to mention a new $30 gel pillow, $40 strangely curved contraption you sit upon to "improve your posture," and a vat of Advil, which may or may not be responsible for the bursts of euphoria ("I think it's getting better!") interspersed with despair ("What if the rest of my life is like this?")

   Normally a procrastinator who avoids my work until the proportions are epic, I now sit and fret over all the things I could be doing if I was able. I watch the clock ticking and feel that life as I knew it is slipping from me. I think of the hours and days I frittered away shopping, complaining, boob-tubing, gossiping, you name it, when I could have been accomplishing something.

   I have wondered what God is trying to teach me, or if he's trying to teach me anything at all, and if he is, how could I hear it in this state.

   You find yourself taking stock, with an ugly apparition over your shoulder chanting, "It can always get worse." Maybe you should start paring down, dump the 12 zucchinis languishing in the fridge, consider smaller digs, give away nine of your 10 sets of dishes, find a new home for Ned, who is indignant anyhow about being thrown on the floor for stepping an orange-striped paw upon your clavicle.

   You think of the times in your life when perhaps you weren't sympathetic to someone else's pain, either emotional or physical. Of the times someone was nasty or rude to you, and you never for one minute thought that the person might be experiencing their own agony and that you should cut them some slack.

   You think of the people who are this minute living under the tyranny of some sort of pain every day all day–catastrophic illness, loss, or abuse–but who yet have hope, and you feel ashamed.

   And you think of all the things you've been asking from God–maybe just some time to catch your breath, to ponder and reflect and lean not on your own understanding. And now, only because everything has been stripped away and your soul has been laid bare before him, he has given you what you've asked for, and from this fertile ground, whether or not you are healed, will come your harvest.

My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise.  Psalm 51:17

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