The Doctor and the Big Top

This afternoon, Ken and I went to a real doctor. We had waited for six months for a "new patient" appointment, because the quack that we had been seeing for incidental sicknesses was starting to scare me with their mistakes. Today, after being literally chased around the office by an aggressive front-desk employee who was convinced I had to put on a mask (although I wasn't sick and yo, lady, they don't help anyway), I settled in one of the back rooms. I asked the nurse to not make me go back up front for any reason. I had waited six months for this appointment and didn't want to commit manslaughter on the first visit. When asked what I was there for, I said PTSD and don't you forget it. I was just kidding, but my twitching eye might have given them pause. I want to know why it is that when you find a kind, excellent doctor, they always have Nazis policing their front office. Apparently they need to keep good fences around their practice. And maybe keep dangerous people like me out of their buildings...

After an exhausting afternoon of running away from people, then getting poked and prodded, I ran errands, did some real work at my desk and then plopped down on the couch when my shoulder started complaining, stressed and too cold. The cat curled up in my lap, purring and snuggling her warmth into my cold body. Before I could complain, I fell asleep. Time went by and my phone buzzed its irritating, mosquito-like siren song. I woke up with a start. I didn't know where I was, heck, I think I didn't know who I was. I used to do that, when my babies were little and I was basically a walking zombie. Maybe this is what happens when you get old and your mind really starts to leave...adventures in guessing who you are.

Back to the nice doctor... she asked me all kinds of questions and I gave her my summary: yeah, I basically hurt all the time and I'm learning to live with it and I'm just grumpier than I used to be. That is not good. They say that when you get stressed or pressed, that what comes out of you is what was in you all the time. There's that saying -- "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!" But what if there's other stuff parked up in them lemons and it comes out when they get squeezed? No amount of sugar can sweeten that mess. I say I want to look like Jesus; I want to be like Jesus when I get reamed out. I imagine I'm taking over, when I need to be letting Him run the show. In actuality, He IS running the show and I just need to get with the program.  There's a little thing called "surrender." I'll ruminate on that for awhile...