Following Through

  "Patience can persuade a prince, and soft speech can break bones." Proverbs 25:15

  I sent a letter to the hospital. There's been no response but the patient advocacy office could be busy. They might need to do their own investigation while being concerned with the potential of wrong doing by one of their doctors. I tried to not blame the doctor or the hospital, that's not why I wrote them. It was to simply question why there was a lack of any sort of anesthetic for the removal of a large polyp.

  Like always, the ole second guessing part of me ends up running full tilt. Should I have said anything? Have I offended anyone? What if the doctor wasn't prepared to find what he did? 

  What I find most interesting is these questions are part of an age old understanding that speaking up for myself is a punishable offense. It has left me feeling very fearful but of nothing in particular. It's a general sense that there will be pushback and punishment.

 On the heels of that lay a far more disturbing question. Why on earth didn't I stop the doctor from continuing the procedure in light of the excruciating pain he was inflicting? Why did I feel I wasn't allowed to stop him?

  What is wrong with me?

  

  Because feeling pain is for my own good. Like when I had my appendix out as a teen. After spending the day home from school with an uncommonly sore stomach, my mom took me to the doctors when she got home from work. He had to assess if this was the issue so he investigated the area. The pain exploded in my belly. 

  What happened after that is pretty vague but I do remember every single pothole in the road and speeding over the train tracks on the way to the hospital. My dad was driving. The speed limit didn't matter. 

  I also remember being wheeled down the hallway to the operating room. Christmas balls and tinsel adorned the ceiling. 

  Because my pain and discomfort is considered an inconvenience, an exaggeration. 

  Because there have been people in my life who enjoy inflicting pain. 

  Because my role was to take it.

  Because any sort of attention was better than no attention at all. 

  Because tattle telling is one of the biggest social taboos on the planet: a child's code of silence.

  Because being grown up means keeping things to yourself. It means sucking up the pain and getting the job done.

  Because there is nothing worse than not being believed.

  Oh, yes there is...it's being blamed for being in pain regardless of what caused it in the first place.

  It's no wonder I couldn't stop the gynecologist, the doctor, this male authority figure because my stop button has been crushed under the footsteps of experience.

  It isn't completely unsalvageable though. 

  It's simply going to take some repairs to get it operational: sandpaper to remove all the corrosion, oil to free the movement, a polishing cloth to make the lens shine, and a new light bulb. Rewiring the button is the most complicated thing of all but I rest in the assurance that Jesus will help me sort all that out.

  I think I'll add some sort of sound to it...a foghorn claxon so people can actually hear me when I say, "Enough!"

  Because Jesus says I am worth it.

  And the held back, silenced tears finally begin to fall because this whole experience has been far more traumatic than I cared to admit or even address.

  This sucks.