I went to the spinal surgeon yesterday...He said I have three discs in my neck which are destroyed (ie: herniated)...and need surgery for that. He also said that I need MORE surgery in my lumbar spine as well...(I've already had 5 surgeries there...and thought that any more was impossible. I'd resigned myself to living with that pain...so maybe this is good news).
The BAD news is that he won't touch me surgically for another 6 MONTHS due to the Staph/MRSA infections in my hip. I was in a panic when I went to him, thinking that I'd have to have an MRI and an Myelogram prior to any surgery...and thinking I couldn't bear to wait for THAT delay! SIX MONTHS!!!
I'm trying hard not to pray for death...and not succeeding. Here's a poem I just wrote on my feelings at the moment.
Slogging
Cynthia Lott Vogel
All Rights Reserved.
I’ll follow you, Lord…
…Wait O God,
Not so fast into those murky slogging depths!
I gasp, breath-catching at the prospect
Of the deep swamp before me.
Soul-sucking, mud-sinking pool,
Rampant with ravenous, carnivorous fish and
Who-knows-what.
Surely not here?
Gifts buried and muddied
Sunk.
Time tick ticking, the hours as slow as my steps,
Engulfed by the ooze.
But yes, there he treads with steps sure and easy.
In his great height he seemed not to notice
The slime into which I plunged.
Up to my neck.
What could possibly lie on the other side
Of sufficient worth to justify this?
Alone,
The silence echoing my gasps of pain
As those pirhanaic jaws latch to my ankles and arms.
Nothing in sight but miles of mud.
Not even him.
But I know surely this is where I was led
Without a clue on earth or in heaven why.
Dare I forge on alone?
Surely this pain will swallow me
As my flesh is cruelly devoured below.
Nowhere to run.
The path out, obscured by deep darkness
The route ahead, horrible beyond imagination.
“Yes, Lord, I’m coming…”
I have nothing but the memory of his love
And the echoes of my willingness to follow.
So step ahead…each step prayer-bound
That the slime does not engulf me entirely,…
Repeating promises that seem empty
Mockeries.
I grip tight to my avowal
That He is good...in control…and present.
If he is not, then this swamp sucks haphazardly,
Pointlessly, and hopelessly—
But sucks none the less.
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