Discouragement and the Gift of Laughter

Yesterday, I took my car to the shop to have a brake line repaired.

Today, I'm going to pick it up and pay $1000 because the extent of the problem was a lot bigger than I knew.  Apparently, I had brake fluid leaking into the drums of both rear brakes, causing them to be functionally useless and wearing the front brakes so dramatically that the pads, rotors and calipers all need replacing.  Plus, living in Houston (where the humidity is always 90% or higher) and then Detroit (where they use salt on the roads all winter long) made a ripe environment for rust.  Half of the lug nuts sheered off when they removed the wheels.  I had this sinking feeling and spent the rest of the day in a funk.

At dinner last night, my wife said that instead of being discouraged by spending that $1000, I should be grateful that we have $1000 to pay for it.  I was stunned...I've been trying, since that moment, to figure out when my wife became a "the glass is half full" person.  This morning, while I was praying about something completely unconnected to this, I had a very vivid memory come back to me.

When we lived in Corpus Christi, TX, I had kidney stones.  The problem was that the little buggers were hiding from the doctors that were trying to treat me.  All they knew was that there was blood present where it should not have been and it had continued through three courses of antiboitics.  So, my urologist scheduled an exploratory procedure to look for the possibility of bladder cancer.  He called it non-invasive, but having a 5/8" diameter probe inserted through your urethra and into your bladder is apparently invasive enough to require general anesthesia...and, frankly, I'm glad they thought so.

I was still a staff minister at a church at this time.  There was a lot of division and in-fighting going on and I was trying to play referee between the pastor (who was proposing and implementing sweeping change) and a large group of church members who liked things the way they were.  I had been dealing with this health issue for almost 6 months.  And since I was the staffer that made hospital visits, there was no one to come pray for me or sit with my wife while she waited to hear if I had cancer or not.

And then Butch walked into the room.  Butch was a male nurse with warm hands.  He was trying a little too hard to affect a caring bedside manner, which made the situation kinda awkward as he explained what was going to happen in the surgery.  "I will be your nurse throughout the procedure.  When we get into the surgery, I'll cover you with hot blankets and put your feet up in stirrups.  Then I will wash the exposed area and prep you while Dr. Aqui, your anethesiologist, begins to put you to sleep.  You'll wake up in Recovery and once you can go to the bathroom, you'll be able to go home."

Now, I know that you ladies reading this will not be impressed by my sudden terror.  I know that my wife wasn't.  But my concern had shifted intantly from cancer to stirrups and having my "exposed area" washed and prepped by Warm-Hand-Butch.  My anxiety increased over time and since Dr. Aqui (ironically his name means "here" in Spanish) was running about a half-hour late, my procedure was delayed about 45 minutes.

When they finally rolled me into the surgery, I understood immediately why I was going to get hot blankets.  It was like being rolled into a giant refigerator.  My uroligist was there and so was the tardy anestisiologist.  They moved me onto the table and several people started talking to me at once.  I heard Butch say, "I will now cover you with hot blankets."  And I wondered if he was going to announce his actions throughout the entire process.  My urologist asked if I had any questions and I heard Butch say, "I will now put your feet in stirrups." 

I looked at my doctor and asked the only really pressing question on my mind at that moment, "Do I have to be consciencious for that?"

On my right, I heard Dr. Aqui say, "Nope."

The next thing I remember was seeing my wife's face when I woke up in the recovery room.  Her mascera was everywhere that it shouldn't have been.  I was alarmed but I managed to keep my voice steady as I asked, "What's wrong, honey?"

At that. my wife and the recovery room nurses burst into laughter.  "You have been so funny!" she said, wiping her eyes.

Apparently, in my post-anesthetized stupor, I had been singing old hymns and Christmas carols and telling Baptist preacher jokes.  I had disclosed to the nurses that the ladies group in our church had just paid $200 to a fund-raising auction to have me sing at their tea before breaking into what was not my finest rendition of "O, Holy Night."  My wife told me later that I kept stopping in the middle of the song and saying, "Am I slipping pitch?  I feel like I'm slipping pitch." or "Do I suck?"

She laughed about that all the way home. 

In spite of the fact that the procedure cost $7000 and didn't lead to any revelations or a diagnosis, we were grateful for the absence of anything that looked remotely like cancer and the chance to laugh.

Maybe that's when Della's cup sterted being half full, maybe not.  Remembering it today reminded me that it is a good thing to be content with what I have and be thankful for God's provision.