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Moseyin’ Along

OK, Lord, I got the message

July 16, 2015
Westfield Republican

Like most folks, I sometimes fall into a "poor me" pattern of thinking. Somehow, instead of looking at the sun shining in the sky, I magnify every cloud above me. I focus on each and every frustration and irritation, convinced my pathway is filled with potholes while all around me are traveling on pavement.

Last week was just such a period.

My family doctor, Dr. C., sent me to a new specialist for evaluation of an infection that just wouldn't go away. The antibiotics I had been taking had made me even more miserable. (Poor me.)

The new doctor, Dr. B., was efficient and attentive. But, he admitted, though he specialized in this particular type of problem, he needed to call on a physician devoted to treating infections intravenously. So he referred me to Dr. W.

A thoughtful man with a quiet, confident approach, Dr. W. assured me he could finally solve my problem. (At last!)

However, in order to put the infection to rest once and for all, I would have to come to his office daily for ten days for an IV infusion of the necessary antibiotic. (Poor me!)

So I started the daily pilgrimage to Dr. W's office. And, each day I was part of a family of brothers and sisters who, like me, were sitting in the big recliners, while various liquids dripped into our veins.

A team of efficient nurses tended to us as we came and went. Tracey, Lisa, Diane and another Lisa buzzed from room to room, checking the lines, talking quietly to the patients, encouraging, joking and making each of us feel as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

Little by little, I changed my mantra from Poor- me to Poor-all-of-us.

Then, one morning, I heard Lisa asking my chair-neighbor quietly, "How are you feeling today?"

The gentlemanI'll call him Erniegave her a tired smile and said, "Well, I'm starting to get a little energy back. But they told me they can't start chemo till I'm stronger."

My situation seemed insignificant when I realized my neighbor was facing a battle far longer and more serious.

As I neared the end of my ten-day treatment, I was in the waiting room, waiting to be called. That's when I happened to overhear another of the patients in this daily gathering of the needle brigade.

The manI'll call him Sam.was locked in an urgent phone conversation with his insurance company. It was impossible to miss the drama playing out in the exchange.

Sam was explaining that he had learned he needed to have his leg amputated. And, on the other end of the line, an insurance company representative was matter-of-factly telling him why the company was going to deny coverage for the operation.

I've finished my treatment now and Dr. W. says the infection has been laid to rest.

But more important than the cure for the infection was the message God sent me during those ten days, a message I sometimes forget, that I am richly blessed.

I will probably never see "Ernie" or "Sam" again, but I won't forget either of those two men.

Thanks to them, I've once again put my problems in perspective. No more thoughts of Poor Me. Instead, I'm taking time to count my blessings every day.

And I've added two strangers to the list of folks I'm lifting to God in prayer.

 
 
 

 

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