thoughts – cranky and droll – from a feisty geezer determined to ride his quick cancer into the ground

Well, never let it be said that “Divine Intervention never did anything for me!”  Miracles are piling up on me.

Today, God (apparently) cured my constipation.  If ever I needed a sign… of God’s love for Me, I have surely seen it now.  The miracle occurred at 6:30 this morning, as Jan and I were hurrying to get on the road, to meet a friend who had offered to ferry us up to the far end of Deer Lake, for the 28th running of “The Bare Buns Fun Run”, at Kaniksu Ranch Nudist Camp.  Though Jan already has a scrap-melt-worthy pile of medals from past naked-running campaigns, she never seems to get enough of showing her backside to the competition every last-Sunday-of July.  Every year, she struggles with the decision, like a kind of monkey on her back, but she usually gives in – at the 11th hour.  I actually do enjoy the chance to sit naked around the camp’s swimming pool, just to see what the rest of God’s other boys and girls are working with.  But, I digress.

There I was, this morning – I was sitting in the “throne room”, ten minutes into Session One, Day Number Three, of the “Just Can’t Seem to Shake These Bloody Constipation Blues”, when what must have been the Holy Spirit entered my body (from whence I don’t know) and promptly took leave, – along with a much-cursed plug of confoundingly-well-stuck (poo).  I had been working for days, multiple shifts, to get the danged thing dislodged – to no avail (for the sake of brevity, I’ll spare my gentle readers the arcane details of my efforts).  With no time to spare, we hurried to make our 7:00 AM date with our friend, Ray.  Then, true to script, “nature called”.   In spite of every devious way I had attempted to help my self, just when I had given up any hope of getting shed of my overly-well-aged digestive obstacle, God came into my life, and gave me blessed relief from my distress!  How could I have ever doubted God’s concern for me?  Here, right in my own humble bathroom, was proof, everlasting, of God’s power.  Alone, I sat there praying (in my own fashion).  While I sat there, as innocent as a lamb, God’s name (“God!”) sprang out of my mouth.  I’d sprinkled in a few other expletive adjectives, too, though I actually had no expectation of God’s mercy falling upon me at that moment, or any other.  And then… it came.  Sweet Baby Jesus & Glory Halleluja!  Satan loosed his grip on the cursed plug of malevolent scat.  I was saved! Jan and I were a little late getting out the door and on our way, but, The Holy Spirit was in my heart, and I could once again walk, standing straight, without having to crab-walk on account of my peristaltic handicap.  And I could, at last, ride the motor scooter – comfortably – without feeling like I was sitting on an up-ended, out-of-date “Tootsie Roll”.  How many times do we need to be shown?…. Good things come to those who wait… and curse.

I was beginning to figure that if the cursed cancer didn’t kill me, then the GD constipation would.  Owing to increasing head-ache and mouth-tongue-throat pain, in order to make it through the week without killing someone nearby, I’ve found it helpful to indulge in swallowing a handful of painkillers, scattered throughout the day.  Swallowing!  Any “Christians” reading this can take comfort in knowing that – with a disease whose chief symptom happens to be difficulty, and often pain, associated with swallowing – swallowing is often, if not usually, fraught.. with… pain.  There seems to be some (signficant?) share of people (Christians) who object to the idea of me cutting my life short – by killing myself.  One of the main things I’ve hoped to cut down on, there by, is suffering.  My own personal suffering.  My own personal suffering.  Mine.  I’m not opposed to anyone – who really wants to suffer – being allowed to suffer all they want.  Me being a sissy, and a pragmatist, I’ve decided against doing a whole lot of suffering.  If I can help it.

Apparently, if you’re a “Christian” (of some local flavors), suffering is to be coveted.  I’ve never understood this, but it’s what they seem to like – at least, they seem to vastly prefer it to cutting to the final scene, like I plan to do.  The really funny thing is that some bunches of them love to imagine how great it’s going to be when they get to meet Jesus, and spend however many days and nights of Eternity, singing all sorts of martial hymns with Him, up in the Big Sweet Yonder.  As far as my own limited arithmetic takes me, this arrangement seems to follow after a Christian’s death.  That seems to be the big happy deal for these folks after they die.  But, as much as they love Jesus, you wouldn’t think they’d be so damned foot-draggy about the chance to spend all those happy days with Him.  Singing.  Would you?   But – I digress, again.

Apparently, it’s the blessed painkillers that mess with a person’s intestinal fortitude and good sense.  The pain pills stop the normal flow of what you’ve done ate.  It only gets so far.  Then, it stops.  Beyond a certain point, it just won’t budge.  Two, three, six or more times a day, I’d get the call: “Head for the pot!  This time it’s for real!”  Away I’d run.  I’d run like Hell was after me!  (I’ve recently learned, when you get the call, it’s no time to start making a scratch sun-dried-tomato pizza.)  Into the potty-house I’d run.  Down I’d sit….  Whoosh!!!  ……. ?…………..  ”THAT’S IT?”  All sound and fury – signifying nothing? …….  Yup.  That’s it. (nothing)  (___)!   No amount of “Special Olympics” or Yoga poses, or Tantric chanting seemed to help.  It was God, after all, who saved a poor wretch – like me – from the infernal stinking brimstone within me.

Doubling up on my laxatives might have helped, too.  But, if it really was the laxatives, why didn’t they work when I first called on them?  Why did they have to test me so?

Dang!  I’d intended to say something about my day at the nudist camp races.  I forgot.  Who knows – merciful God might suffer me to live through the night, again.  (Go figure)  Maybe I can work on “Nude Race Day!”, tomorrow.  Now I lay me down to sleep.  (If you want to read anything I’ve previously sputtered out, you need to go up to the top of the page… click on “Home“.  You’ll get it all, in reverse order.)

DBT