Instead of Praying for My Body When it Hurts, I Will Pray for the Body
When I was younger, I promised myself that I would never sit around and bore people about my increasing aches and pains. Now that I am older, I am naturally more empathetic to my age-set’s varying degrees of ills. Not that I make evidence of my own physical decline a subject for conversation, but ailments, aches and pains are part of the way our bodies remind us that there is an eventual life terminus in the offing. Such as this is, I am learning that ailments are a useful gift for the elderly (and for those of any age, actually) as a prod to intercede for the suffering church worldwide. How can this be?
I confess that it is all too easy for me to forget to pray for those who are struggling physically. I confess that I am often negligent in my intercession for those who are ill.
So at the risk of breaking my own vow not to bore others with discussions of personal physical ailments, let me nevertheless share about the wrestling match I had with my digestive system one whole night (and the rest of that week) and the lesson I learned about interceding for the sick from that unpleasant marathon event.
Years ago, on vacation with my husband, I ended up in the Emergency Room of a little town in Tennessee. I thought I was having a heart attack—the pain was so severe—but instead, after an EKG and a CAT-scan (Computerized Axial Tomography), the ER doctor announced there was nothing wrong with my heart, but it appeared that I had a hiatal hernia.
He didn’t flap his hands about it but suggested that the intrusion of part of my stomach through the diaphragm might be a condition that I would need to monitor. It appears that instead of having a heart attack, I was suffering from the late dinner we had enjoyed (rather too much country fried chicken). I learned my lesson, have avoided deep fried foods of any kind in the 20 years since this incident, researched the topic and have basically controlled the impact of the hernia by eating smaller portions, avoiding late-night meals, and finishing eating before my stomach had filled. Though over-the-counter medication for stomach ailments are seemingly endless in their variety (a recent shopping trip to Wal-Mart revealed a whole aisle of beautifully designed boxes dedicated to the cause of relieving stomach pain and intestinal discomfort), our medicine cabinet held a 20-year old bottle of Milk of Magnesia and a comparatively aging box of laxatives. The need for management of stomach issues has, obviously, been few and far between.
Every once in a while, if I experienced some discomfort, a feeling of being too full after eating, I learned if I paced in the house some, waiting for an hour or so for the food to pass through the digestive track, again making mental reminders all the while to 1.) Not eat too much at night, and 2.) To not eat after 5 o’clock or thereabouts at all, my hiatal hernia condition and I would get along just fine.
Every once in a while, a random X-ray would evoke a medical response: “You’ve got quite a large hiatal hernia!” This happened when I tripped over the open dishwasher door in my kitchen, fell headfirst against a cabinet, dislocated my right shoulder and consequently was scheduled for corrective arthroscopic surgery. Perhaps I was more concentrated on the ER doctor’s exclamation, “You mean you hauled yourself off the floor and up the stairs with a dislocated shoulder to get your husband to drive you to the hospital? What a woman!” Consequently, patting myself on the back in agreement with the doctor’s evaluation (he had to call in another doctor to help him reset my shoulder—a little tug-of-war going on there), I didn’t pay too much attention to the “large hiatal hernia” remark.
However, my relationship with my hiatal hernia changed drastically last month when, after a regular checkup, my general physician referred me to a gastroenterologist. This, ostensibly, was for the purpose of scheduling a routine colonoscopy. I personally think when one has survived decades and reached one’s 70s, one should not have to worry any longer about such diagnostic interventions.
I mentioned to the gastroenterologist that I had a hiatal hernia, and that it had never been examined. This led to an endoscopy, which led to an appointment with a referred surgeon, who professionally informed me that my hiatal hernia was actually a rather large paraesophageal hernia. A paraesophageal hernia could torque= and cut off the blood supply to the stomach, which would lead to the loss of that essential organ. Now there was some quiet, but professional, hand-flapping—why hadn’t anyone take notice of this before?
So back to the medical diagnostic unit of our nearby local hospital early one Monday morning, this time for a comprehensive blood draw panel and for a series of CAT-scans (“CT CHEST ABDOMEN PELVIS W CONTRAST Oral & IV,” reads the order I brought home from the surgeon’s office). These would give more accurate photos of the size, position and twist of what appeared to be a serious intrusive condition. A date was set for surgery as well as an appointment for another pre-op exam.
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