Nowhere to go but the heart

Healing

Nowhere to go but the heart.  - Sufi saying

 Every day I'm better. Every day I feel fully myself for a little longer. I'm sleeping less—though  I still took two short naps and one long one yesterday, felt depleted much of the day regardless, and then slept soundly through the night. On the other hand, friends were here from 9 in the morning till 1:30 in the afternoon, helping in the house, bringing delightful food, and sharing their healing energy with me.

My hand is close to completely mobile now. The areas around the scabs are tender, so I avoid using those parts of my hand - the finger easy, the palm not so easy - but I haven't been in real pain since the third day following the surgery, a gift I attribute entirely to Dr. Woods's extraordinary craftsmanship. 

At the heart of the matter is caring: channeling the light of consciousness through the heart.

I'm very fortunate. My heart is overflowing with gratitude for the extraordinary care I received through this experience: from the folks at MedStop who recognized the danger and sent me right to the ER; to the ER staff who called Dr. Woods so quickly; to the nurses and hospital staff who managed the regimen of IV antibiotics pumped into the wound and my veins over the days following; to Dr. Holland who recognized the C. diff so quickly, and the ER staff the second time around who re-hydrated me and set me on the course to overcoming it; to Tom's round-the-clock compassion, to Josephine who showed up at my house the day after I came home bearing baskets of probiotics, burdock root, sauerkraut and yogurt, washed my hair, and fed both Tom and me and healing meal; and to the long list of friends who've sent loving thoughts, reiki, prayers and other forms of distance healing, to others who've visited, cleaned the house and brought meals. No wonder I'm healing as quickly as I am.

Nonetheless, this is a dualistic world, one in which heaven and hell co-exist. The loving care of all these individuals is balanced by the descent I experienced during the first few days of the ordeal.

The first instance of the opposite of caring came in the form of that sunny Californian optimism that makes San Luis Obispo the second happiest place in the world. We all assumed the dog bite would be fine; the dog's owner didn't even give me her name. A quick apology was enough.

Then two images from the depth of the experience:

On the Fourth of July, the Monday after the dog bit me, I woke nauseous from the huge doses of painkillers I was taking. Using my left hand because my right was engaged in being drained, I buzzed the nurse, something I had to do every time a trip to the toilet was necessary— and many were—with liters of antibiotics rushing through me day and night. After the third buzz she came, pert and breezily apologetic, and unplugged the pumps from the wall so I could get up and lumber across the room to the toilet. I mentioned to her I felt sick and she promised to order an an anti-emetic. I crawled back into bed, positioned my hand so it would drain onto the absorbent pad instead of the sheets and none of the tubes were kinked, and went back to sleep.  

Perhaps a couple hours passed when I woke to an orderly dropping off my lunch. I used the up button to raise the back of the bed so I could sit up to eat and as I rose, I discovered I was very nauseous indeed. I buzzed the nurse and waited, sitting very still and breathing slow and deep. About ten minutes passed. I was about to buzz again when I knew it was too late. I grabbed the lid that was keeping my lunch warm and vomited into it.

Then I sat there, holding the lid with my left hand, my lunch waiting, the absorbent pad doing double duty, for about forty minutes.

"Surrender is the rare and necessary gift of cooperation with God," Ganesh Baba says. How fortunate I was at that moment to have done the work, breathing in abundance, breathing out surrender, for months in advance of finding myself in a position where there was nothing to do but surrender.

I examined my breakfast curiously and checked out what had and hadn't been digested. I waited. I breathed.

And eventually, the nurse came, profusely apologetic this time.  But, too often, apology is cheap currency. 

Nonetheless, the dog, her owner and the nurse, despite their lack of caring attention, are only messengers. My karma is my karma; their karma is theirs.

The second incident came later the same night.  I woke up soaking wet: bed, blankets, hospital gown. Apparently my hand had moved off the absorbent pad while I was sleeping and all those antibiotics had rushed through my hand and into the bed. I buzzed and the night nurse was on it. The nights are better than the days for getting service of Hotel French. Less squeaky wheels.

When I was washing up, I realized that it was the left IV that was leaking, not the right. It would have to be removed and reinserted, but first my hospital gown, which I'd been wearing since I came to the ER Saturday morning, would need to be changed. Unfortunately, it was not the IV kind of gown that snaps at the shoulders. 

So, at 1:30 in the morning, I stood naked in the middle of the hospital room as my wet gown was cut off me. It took another hour and a half to find a good vein and get a new IV hooked up. Finally reconnected to tubes in both hand, pumps plugged into the wall, I fell asleep.

When she entered the seventh gate,
From her body the royal robe was removed.

Inanna asked:What is this?

She was told:
Quiet, Inanna, the ways of the underworld are perfect,
They may not be questioned.

Naked and bowed low, Inanna entered the throne room.

Ereshkigal rose from her throne.
Inanna started from her throne.

The Anunna, the judges of the underworld, surrounded her.
They passed judgment against her.

Then Ereshkigal fastened on Inanna the eye of death.

She spoke against her the word of wrath.
She uttered against her the cry of guilt.
She struck her.

Inanna was turned into a corpse,
A piece of rotting meat,
And was hung from a hook on the wall.

"Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth: Her Stories and Hymns From Sumer" by Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer. Harper & Rowe, Publishers.

  

We can choose what we care about. I delight in seeing this whole experience mythologically. I could choose to be angry. Then, I would probably still be fighting some infection instead of drawing a picture of a heart on my healing hand.