MICHELE MARR -- SOUL FOOD

June began with one great disappointment. My sister’s 17-year-old

daughter, my niece Kellen, graduated from Saline High School in Saline,

Mich., on June 3, and I couldn’t be there. Since her family relocated

from Santa Cruz to this small, pastoral town not far for Ann Arbor, I

don’t get to see enough of Kellen, her 12-year-old brother Remy and their

mom and dad.

And a kid only graduates from high school once.

This kid, who never really liked school, had worked hard anyway and

was graduating with highest honors. Her parents were proud. Her living

grandparents were proud. One flew in from the East Coast and the other

flew in from California to be there. I was fairly peeved that I wasn’t. I

was also fairly sick. I had been sick, in a chronic sort of way, since

last July.

My symptoms then were symptoms associated with colon cancer. So I

heeded my doctor’s advice, and the ubiquitous urgings of Katie Couric to

the nation, and submitted to a colonoscopy. I have to vindicate Katie and

say it wasn’t bad. I even got a two-inch badge, pink with a white

shooting star, from my doctor that says, “I enjoyed my colonoscopy.”

From what I could garner from a Polaroid snap shot in her office, the

buttons are made by a satisfied patient. Like I said, it wasn’t bad, but

I haven’t been inclined to wear my badge.

The best part of course, was that I got a clean bill of health. Except

for the suggestion that my symptoms were caused by irritable bowel

syndrome. The gastroenterologist prescribed some medication and sent me

on my way. A month later my symptoms persisted. At a follow-up

appointment, my primary care physician prescribed a different medication.

My symptoms clung.

I read about irritable bowel syndrome on the Internet, in the library

and in books I purchased at my favorite online bookstore. Nowhere could I

find bleeding, a symptom I had, as part of irritable bowel syndrome. No

one suggested any further tests. There were no other medications to try.

The ones I had been taking, I was told, were the best there are. No one,

except for me, my family and our closest friends who knew about my

illness, seemed at all alarmed that after more than 10 months my symptoms

were not only hanging on, they were getting worse.

New symptoms were cropping up. I had long been constantly and

painfully fatigued. No amount of sleep allowed me to wake up rested. I

began to have tingling and numbness in my hands and feet. My legs began

to feel as if they would not hold me. I was lightheaded, dizzy and had

blurred vision. My heart pounded rapidly. I could hear it beating in my

ears.

My sister began to wonder out loud if I might have lupus or multiple

sclerosis. Though those things, too, would not account for the bleeding I

was having. My mother started to prod to get a second opinion. Every

person we know who prays was praying for me.

But God did not move.

I meditated on the prayers of Paul to the Lord to remove a physical

affliction. The Lord’s answer to Paul?

“My grace is sufficient for you.”

My closest friend Lisa began to tease me about being like the woman in

Luke 8:43: “Now a woman, having a flow of blood for 12 years, who had

spent her livelihood on physicians and could not be healed by any, came

from behind and touched the border of his garment. And immediately her

flow of blood stopped.”

I knew from time’s past, that sometimes when I prayed and God did not

move it was a message to me -- I was the one who needed to move. So I

changed my prayers. I stopped praying, “Lord take this illness from me.”

Instead I prayed that he would show me what I needed to do.

I began to realize that my pain and fatigue and isolation had begun to

consume me. My every waking prayer was for relief. Songs of thanksgiving

had slipped from my prayer vocabulary. I knew it was time to change my

tune.

Whenever I was tempted to contend with God for relief, I would recite

my favorite psalm, No. 100.

“O be joyful in the Lord -- go your way into His gates with

thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise; be thankful unto Him, and

speak good of His name. For the Lord is gracious and His mercy is

everlasting.”

My spirit felt lighter, but my body swooned. I was bleeding more and

growing weaker and weaker. I would lie down at night feeling that I might

be close to death. I would thank God each morning I opened my eyes.

Finally, on May 29, I could hardly stand. When I did, the world went

black and my blood pounded in my ears. I went to the doctor. My own

doctor was not available, so another doctor saw me. After hearing why I

was there, she drew some blood to test.

When she called with the results I was stunned. “Go to the ER now,”

she said, “Your hemoglobin was nine on Tuesday. By now it is probably

worse. I think you may need a blood transfusion.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I thought, “God is moving.”

And I think he was. My husband drove me to Hoag Hospital. It is

tempting to call those who treated me angels, but that would truly be

demeaning. Angels are creatures distinct from mankind. Men do not become

angels and angels do not become men. The doctors and nurses and aides who

treated me were men and women with the biggest hearts I have ever seen.

They took such care not to cause me pain. They took such pains not to

leave me alone, while for three days they made test after test to try to

find out what was causing my symptoms. After building up my blood with

transfusions, potassium and other things a body needs to function right,

they sent me home with a lactose-free diet.

I have been symptom-free ever since. So I am celebrating thanksgiving

in July. I missed Kellen’s big day, but it looks like I’ll make it to a

family reunion in Mobile, Ala. this August. Last week, I was blessed with

the opportunity to thank my emergency room doctor for his care. My mother

had a bug or a touch of food poisoning, and I took her to the hospital.

The same doctor who treated me was there to treat her.

“Wow,” he said, “you look great. You looked terrible -- but of course

your were sick.”

I’m looking forward to thanking each and every one of those men and

women of mercy. They treated me with the tenderness of God himself.

* MICHELE MARR is a freelance writer and graphic designer from

Huntington Beach. She has been interested in religion and ethics for as

long as she can remember. She can be reached at o7

michele@soulfoodfiles.com.f7