Adventures in Antepartum

Extended Slumber Party in Antepartum 203:  My Love/Hate Relationship with the Hospital and Partial Guide to Ruling Your Idle Time Like a Boss

      I have a confession to make.  Bear with me.  This is hard, sharing such a startling revelation with my gigantic reading public, but I HATE HOSPITALS.   Here’s a brief, thumbnail sketch of reasons why: 

      1.  They smell bad.  2.  They smell weird.  3.  There are rubber gloves everywhere that look like cow nipples.  5.  They smell like big business.   4.  I can feel the germs breeding.  6.  The food sucks.  7.  If what happened in hospitals was working why are there still sick people?  8.  Fluorescent lights.  9.  Nondescript directions and labyrinthine hallways that lead to nowhere.  10.  Dr. Cox, J.D. and Turk are nowhere to be found which means Scrubs was a lie and completely crushes everything I hold dear and true.  11.  Parking garages.  12.  Doors that are open during certain times of the day but closed during other times of the day, specifically times of the day when you’re carrying a ton of groceries upstairs to labor and delivery where your wife is and it’s the shortest, most direct route and instead you have to go round-about through four other wings with all of the groceries.  13.  John Wayne toilet paper.

      

      Don’t get me wrong, hospitals aren’t all that bad.  I’ve been living in one for a few days since Stef is going to be here until baby Olive is born.  For those of you who don’t know, Stef ruptured prematurely, has been on bedrest and now that we’ve what medical science considers a “viable gestation period” she has been admitted into the hospital to be closely monitored until our daughter is born.  I guess since I’m getting accustomed to the environment all of my anti-hospital defense mechanisms are quickly faltering.  But maybe my reasons for being here have softened me a little bit.  I’m being forced to step into the shoes of many others.  I don’t have to like hospitals, but I don’t have to make them my mortal enemy either.   All in all, I guess what I’m getting down to is how perspective colors experience. 

      

      In reference to my last article, a year ago if you would’ve told me that I would be spending my Christmas in the hospital, I would’ve told you that would not happen and it was a terrible idea.  Well, I stuck it out.  We had visitors.  It’s fun spending time with my wife even though she can’t get out of bed, and my daughter even those she’s still in-utero.  What has hit me like a ton of bricks is that I've spent my Christmas here (along with all of my other days off from teaching) and I’ve barely noticed it.  What gives?  I need something to get cantankerous and riled up about!  At first I had a momentary breakdown, because I thought I was finally turning into an old man, but then I remembered that my old man died (Gal. 5:22, haha church pun), but really it’s just my perspective is changing and thus erasing a latent fear that had been lurking beneath my caustic outrage towards all things related to hospitals and modern “health care” in general. 

      I was angry at hospitals because I was afraid.  I was afraid at some level that I was sick or would become sick or my health would mysteriously fail which somehow is linked to my experience of medicine as a child.  I never spent time in the hospital as a child.  But I had a family doctor.  I was on an HMO.  I had what seemed an unusual amount of childhood illnesses.  Every time I went in it seemed, I felt so horrible I thought I was going to die and then on top of all of that, they would try to poke me with something or give me a perscription of something disgusting to take for several days or weeks after my visit.  Point being, hospitals, doctors, health care in general for me has always been linked to something negative, painful and inconvenient. 

      Not to mention, I’ve had a couple of bad diagnoses.  One was a broken foot (stress fracture) that three different doctors and another specialist all ruled as tendonitis.  I spent three months walking on a broken foot.  Of course the break got worse (actually bad enough for the doctors to see it) and I had to spend six months off my feet.  Another time I was misdiagnosed for the flu when I had mono.  I was given a type of medication that caused me to break out into a rash and also caused some of my capillaries to burst.  Needless to say, after a day of bad reaction to the meds, I stopped taking them.  Eventually they did some bloodwork and found out I had mono.  Problem being, the type of meds I was given initially actually could’ve been fatal if I would have taken them any longer (I would’ve been at risk for a blood vessel bursting in my brain aka aneurism.)

      I’m not trying to place blame on doctor’s or anything, but just give you a little background into the root of my fears and growing realization.  Anyways, after that last misdiagnosis, I made a decision to take my health more authoritatively into my own hands.  I did a lot of research.  There was a lot of trial and error.  I changed my diet, how I exercised, I stopped taking any OTC meds, and I stopped going to the doctor.  It’s been 6 years, and I’ve had no type of illness other than a minor cold and a 24-hour stomach bug.  I could detail my journey and I’m still learning, but bottom line, our bodies are designed to heal themselves if we allow them to.  Unfortunately most modern medical practices treat only symptoms or aim at getting "better" symptoms and very rarely treat the root of most health conditions or point patients towards their bodies’ ability to heal. 

     Anywho, I’m over it.  And I’ve been kicking it in the hospital, my former arch-nemesis, with my healthy wife and my healthy daughter and really the whole ordeal is quite bizarre.  My wife is healthy, my daughter is healthy (there are some complications, but no illnesses or threats of illness) and I’m healthy.  Here we are, three healthy people in a hospital.  Despite the little pullout couch I sleep on and our tiny fridge, I’m having a good time.  There’s always plenty of people to people watch.  And I have a ton of free time.

      I’ve been lamenting for 6 months about how I have so many creative projects I need to wrap up but I don’t have the time.  I’ve also been complaining about how I never have time to read anymore.  Well here I am, stuck in a hospital in the middle of a city new people are moving to everyday.  Although the circumstances in one sense are less than desirable (certainly I wish the complications with the birth weren’t there), I’m still in the lead.  Advantage Matthew.  Old irrational fears: 0.

      So far, after 6 days in the brig and I’ve read 3 books.  I’ve progressed to the last chapter of the novel I’ve been writing.  I’ve gotten a month’s worth of lessons done for my upcoming classes.  And...I’ve been working out/running like a fiend.  What should be a stressful and draining set of days has actually felt more like a vacation. 

      So to all my millions of readers out there, I want to encourage you in your perspective and the power it carries.  Your perspective colors your days and breathes life into whatever you attach it to.  May you live, love, learn, life and have your eyes constantly transformed to see the world and your dreams much bigger than you can conceive.      

What Did I Sign Up For?

IF YOU WOULD HAVE TOLD ME THIS IS WHAT I SIGNED UP FOR I WOULDN’T HAVE GOTTEN MARRIED

                Seriously, I wouldn’t have.   Don’t misunderstand.  I don’t mean this in a negative way.  I’m just saying if you would have told the plucky mancub standing at the altar smiling, beard blowing in the wind,  what the first year plus of marriage would entail, he would have promptly grabbed his ball and went home.  That’s right.  He would have tucked his tail between his legs and made a quick exit.

In the same vein, I love being married.  I love my wife.  I love our growing family.  In all honesty it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.  But, tbh, the mancub standing at altar had no idea what it was going to be like...and here’s the shocker...that’s actually a good thing.

                The mystery is much more delicious than knowing.

                Having it all planned out can be advantageous.  Having expectations for how things are going to pan out or are supposed to be are all well and good, but, and here’s a quick tip for all of you soon to be hitched or are in that I-really-wanna-get-married-so-bad-I-can-hardly-stand-it phase:  1. You never know what to expect.  2.  What you think is reasonably foreseeable isn’t going to occur the manner in which you think it should.

                But that’s ok.  Take the plunge.  If you’re about to say those vows and tie the knot, then you’re in this for life.  If you believe in immortality and incorruptibility then that means 100s upon 1000s of years.  Get used to it.  There is no turning back.  Who you were when you were dating is gone.  Who you will be six months from now will be different than who you are now.  The same goes for your spouse. 

                That’s ok.   

                Enter day 6 of our union.  We are driving from West Texas to the Hill Country for what is supposed to stop No. 3 of our honeymoon.  It’s raining, I’m driving fast.   The red and blues start flashing.  I’m pulled over.  The cop is threatening me and I’m in the middle of nowhere so of course my idealism kicks in and I start lecturing the cop on the finer points of constitutional law, the difference between administrative procedures and laws that apply to living persons, how since he couldn’t prove that the STRAWMAN, MATTHEW MONK wasn’t the same as the living man Matthew Monk, then he had no jurisdiction in the matter and had to let me go and if he didn’t he would be violating several of my inalienable rights and thus subject to penalties…well…he pulled me out of the car, beat me up and took me to jail.  There I was, sitting in a cell while my wife dealt with the cops by herself…and I thought I was being a hero and protecting her.  Then she had to shell out all of our wedding money to post bail.  Moral of the story:  I was still thinking like a bachelor idealist.  Getting arrested didn’t bother me…but now I had someone else to think about.  I spent the next year paying fines, going to anger management classes and trying to find steady work with a resisting arrest (Class B Misdemeanor) charge on my record.  Let’s just say this is not the best foot to start your marriage on.  I’m lucky.  My wife is a trooper.  She handled it all gracefully even though she should have let me have it.  She should have walked out the door.  Honestly I almost expected her to.  But she didn't. 

                A little more than a month later I got one of those phone calls no one ever expects to get.  I had finally landed a reasonably steady job.  Stef had booked a long term gig at her job too, so things were stabilizing and we were getting things sorted out after the arrest.  I woke up that morning and had a call from my friend that was made about 3 A.M.  He left a message and said I needed to call him back ASAP, and I quote, “It’s that bad.”  I called back.  He was asleep.  It was a few hours later, at church, I was in the middle of getting blasted by El Shaddai at church when my phone rang.  I stepped outside.  My friend said some words that didn’t make any sense.  Then I saw the new article.  It still didn’t make sense.  But there it was in black and white.  One of my best friends was in the middle of it all…something so twisted and bizarre that it belonged in a Stephen King novel.  Then the phone calls came.  Hundreds of them.  People asking me questions about my friend.  Questions I couldn’t answer.  Questions I didn’t know how to answer.  Investigators.  Reporters.  Accusations.  Assumptions.  Presumptions.  Emotions that there aren’t words for and words there aren’t emotions for.  My wife stood with me through it all.  She gave me all the space I needed to process.  And let me talk her ear off to process when I knew she was tired of hearing about it all.  She was there to comfort me through all of it even when I thought there was no coming back from it.

                We weathered that storm.  The truth came to light.  Things settled.  Then someone got murdered a few yards from our front door.  All of the sudden our cute little ethnic neighborhood is being patrolled left and right for cops on high alert for gang-activity and narcotraffickers.  Protecting my wife took on a new light.  What was I thinking moving into this neighborhood in the first place?  It was cheap.  Close to my wife’s job and in a nice central location.  (She worked on the northside while I worked on the southside.)  Suddenly none of that was good enough.  Suddenly we needed more money and a better place to live.  Maybe the mancub was learning.

                We had a plan, we had an exit strategy.  Then I got laid off.  No warning.  A measly $200 as severance.  Now we have not enough for rent and we have to vacate.  Luckily we have a place to go.  It was tough.  We didn’t know where the $ was going to come from.  But everything got taken care of.  We got settled in.  Some new work started.  Then the best news we’d ever received happened!...Stef was pregnant!

                And the day after that I got laid off again and told to vacate the premises within a week.  I filed for unemployment.  Our great State Programs awarded my a grand total of $0 in unemployment benefits because I'm too old/too young caucasian and male. 

                Some friends took us in.  I started job hunting.  Things were looking up.  I had some leads and some interviews.  $ materialized out of nowhere.  Then one day, in the middle of the afternoon, Stef started bleeding, bleeding a lot.  We go to the ER.  They tell us she’s losing the baby.  Worst day of my life so far.

                We don’t lose the baby.  Miracle time!  I start a new job.  I get a promotion.  I get another promotion.  I get promotion number three and a company car.  We have enough money to get back into our own place.  We move.

                Day one in our new place, Stef is cooking dinner and I thought she peed her pants, but the water keeps coming.  This isn’t normal.  This isn’t supposed to happen.  She’s only 20weeks.  We were preparing for this only…5 months down the road.  We go to the ER.  They tell us there’s nothing they can do.  At this point it’s a coin toss.  Worst day of my life.  Period.

                I start a new job.  We’ve made it to 23 weeks.  They said if we made it this far, then our little girl has the best chance of making it.  I know she’s going to.  It’s the strangest thing.  I know my daughter already.  Tough like her mom.  Stubborn like her dad.

                The mancub that stood at the altar over a year ago is not the person I see in the mirror right now.  And that’s ok.  Like I said, if I would’ve told him what was going to happen, he would’ve ran away scared.  But I’ve made it.  It hasn’t been easy, yet it has been easy.  The peace which has followed our little family in the midst of less than ideal circumstances is nothing short of supernatural.  Surely the Lord prepares for us a feast in the midst of our enemies.  The war is over. 

            When you stand upon that altar and present yourselves as living sacrifices to God and to one another, there really is no turning back. You have entered the threshold to a brand new reality, a new world entirely. And that’s ok.