sickness

cal ripken — image courtesy of photobucket.com

I’m usually good for one awful, please-God-kill-me bout of sickness per year, but the last time I actually threw up was Christmas Eve 1995. I am of the opinion that there is no worse feeling in this life than when…that…happens. I’ve heard people say they’re not feeling well and wished they would just go ahead and do it, as if the after would be worth the during. They lie. Throwing up helps no one.

I remember that last time because of the irony involved. Christmas has always been my favorite time of year—of joyful blessing and peace on earth and Hosanna in the Highest—and yet there I was in the bathroom with my head against the porcelain god saying “This can’t be happening this can’tbe happening thiscan’tbehappen—”

And then it did.

Just so you know, it was horrible. Merry Christmas to me.

That was the day I vowed to never throw up again. I didn’t know exactly how much of a say I had in that, but I thought I’d give it a shot. It’s been tough a few times. I’ve had flu and strep and colds and infections and viruses. I’ve had moments of thiscan’tbehappen—. But I am proud to say that as of today, my streak is unbroken.

I’m proud of that. I’m the Cal Ripken of not puking.

Just in case you’re interested, I’ll tell you how such an impressive feat is accomplished. It certainly isn’t something as mundane as a proper diet (my breakfast this morning? Deer jerky, a bowl of Frankenberry, and coffee). No, I’ve kept my streak through more esoteric measures.

Not puking is a mental thing. A mindset. But it’s also following a few commonsense steps when things go from good to uh-oh.

Like step one: pay attention. Be mindful of that little flutter in your gut. Stop what you’re doing and take stock. It may be a fluke, yes. But it may be something more, also. I’m convinced the vast majority of puking happens when people fail to heed the warning signs and only act when it’s too late.

If it isn’t a fluke and it really may be something more, then it’s on to step two: breathe. Nice, deep, even breaths into and then out the nose. Never through the mouth. I cannot emphasize this point enough. The last thing you want to be doing at that moment is opening your mouth.

Once your breathing is under control, you can move to your thoughts. That’s step three. The mind is an amazing creation, and whatever goes on in there affects the rest of you. Start thinking about peaceful things—mountains and flowers people laughing. Don’t think about oceans, though—too wavy. And for the love of all that is holy and good, don’t think about what might happen. That will ruin everything.

If you’re at step three and still feeling like the wave is building and the end is nigh, it’s time for step four: pray. Pray hard. Steps one through three have failed me through the years, but step four never has. God has always been my Pepto-Bismol.

I say all this because I was sick last week. Not please-God-kill-me sick, but more like you’d-better-slow-down sick. And even though things didn’t progress into a downward spiral of almost-yarking, I decided to follow the above guidelines anyway.

And you know what? It worked.

I’m thinking now of expanding those four rules and including them on the days I feel fine, too. No use to waste them when I’m sick.

I’m going to pay attention more. And when things start going from good to uh-oh, I’m going to stop and breathe.

I’m going to keep the good in my thoughts and not dwell on the bad.

And I’m going to pray. More and always.

For the last few weeks, various forms of sickness have been playing tag with my family. Last Wednesday, I was It. Before that, it was my daughter.

I spent most of last Monday trying to convince her that if she had to miss school because she was sick, then pinkeye was most definitely the way to go.

She didn’t buy that at first. How could having yucky goop seeping out of one of your eyes be a good thing?

Because, I said, her eye might be sick, but she really wasn’t. No fever or vomiting (thank you, Jesus). No stomach ache or sore throat. Which meant that the usual procedures of staying immobilized on the sofa under a blanket with a cool washcloth didn’t apply.

In other words, she didn’t need to act sick. We could play.

“Even if I called in sick to school?” she asked, which was how she preferred to phrase it. Really?”

“Really.”

She thought for a moment. Then, in an awed whisper, she said, “Wow.”

So we played. A game of chess first, which was awkwardly played with Barbie and Ken dolls. Then we made each other a pretend Play-doh snack, then we made each other a real one. And then we colored: Snow White for her, Mater for me (because that’s how I roll).

I was trying to make our day together a good one, the sort of father/daughter experience that she would fondly remember and I could use as leverage when she starts dating in ten years (because I roll that way, too). Yet she was solemn through the whole morning. Even quiet. She didn’t even scream “Gotcha!” when she captured my queen.

“What’s the matter?” I asked over a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches. “You feeling bad?”

“No,” she said. “Yes. Kinda.”

“You sound like your mother,” I answered. “Say it straight. Does your eye hurt?”

“No.”

“Stomach?”

“No. I don’t hurt. I just feel bad.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel good.”

I squinted my eyes and flashed her the universal sign of male confusion.

“You feel bad because you feel good?”

“If I’m not at school, I should feel sick,” she clarified. “I don’t feel sick, so I should be at school.”

Oh. What?

“You don’t like taking a day off with your old man?” I asked.

“Daddy,” she answered, “I have a responsitility to go to school.”

“I think you mean ‘responsibility,’” I said.

“Yeah. That.”

Oh. That.

“You’re right,” I said. “Absolutely right. Going to school is part of your responsibility to grow up and be a proper lady who can do whatever God asks of her.”

“I don’t think I’m doing that today,” she whispered.

“Oh, I do.”

“You do?”

“No doubt about it. Because there’s another part about growing up and being used by God that doesn’t involve things like school.”

“Really?”

“Sure. And that’s the part we’re working on today. You have the school part down pretty good. You study and get good grades and help the teacher. Those are fine things. Fine. And I hope you always work hard like that. But a lot of people think they have to work all the time. If they’re doing stuff like we’re doing today, just hanging out and playing, they feel guilty.”

“Sort of like I’m feeling?”

“Exactly. But you don’t need to feel bad taking it easy every once in a while. That’s good for you, too. Jesus worked hard, but He still knew how to relax. He’d go for walks and sit by wells and tell stories and stuff.”

She gave me an appreciative nod. “So sometimes it’s okay to call in sick?” she asked.

“Yes. And sometimes it’s okay to call in well.”

“I like calling in well.”

“Me, too.”

We do so much, don’t we? We have jobs and care for our families and support our churches. We work. Always work. And if we were told there was even more of something we needed to do, we’d likely throw our hands up in surrender.

But there is more we need to do, I think. And that can be summed up in one word.

Nothing.

We need to learn how to do more of nothing. How to sit still. God has a hard time using for His purpose those who refuse to stop and listen. Those who think it best to charge ahead rather than stand and wait. We spend so much time planning our lives that we often forget to live them.

Which is why the quality of our lives isn’t defined by how much we can get done, but how much we can let be.

Four rules

Letting Be