Tonight, I am throwing an “I guess I’m not dying after all party” and you’re invited.
Again, with the health stuff. I know it must bore a bit but hey, what else is there to talk about! Timely recap: one week ago today I run a few tests at South health hospital and my oxygen level registers at a 58 (curiously enough, the age of one Larry Richard aka my father on his death day). Next thing I know, I’m being told I have no choice, I must start using an oxygen tank 24/7 and I can no longer drive because legally, that number makes me impaired. These are lab people, mind you but I take their words seriously, though my mind had plunged into deep shock and denial. I go upstairs one level shortly after and meet with my doctor. She confirms what the lab rats had found, but she takes it easier on me, allowing me the choice of the oxygen or not. Bottom line was I should not be driving especially professionally with my day job and we will do a bunch of follow up.
Ok. So bad enough but at least I don’t have to drag around an o2 container and have the nose tubes. Flip side is I can’t do my current job any more and there’s the impending threat on my shoulders that I am in scary rough shape. Inside, my organs are slowly dying. These are all things I was told last Friday and why should I dispute them? They are professionals, am I wrong? Yes. I think so.
You see, today I made the noon hour crawl up to the Foothills hospital to pick up a sleep test kit for use either tonight or tomorrow. With it, there is one of those finger thingies that monitors heart rate and you guessed it, o2 level. She wants to check before giving me the machine. She squeezes open the dealio and I slip my left index tenderly inside. I ask her to let me know my o2 number and as I make the request I glance over and see it myself. 93. Mind blown.
I tell her the story of last Friday and after deducing that I’m never short of breath, she was all like, “Ya, there’s no way you’re a 58. You’re 93.” And with that, I jumped up, dipped her, kissed her then like a mic drop, I did a body drop followed by some serious skipping down the hallway whilst humming “Rhythym is a dancer” by SNAP. Moments later, security had me smooching the floor and begging for my very life but that’s another blog posting in the making.
So, what’s the deal here? Whose machine or reading inefficiency made me feel like I was in really scary physical shape, like life threatening? And this is the second time in two months that this has happened to me! Previous readers will recall the whole rash/flu symptom scenario quickly escalating to what my family doctor considered it very well might be blood cancer, only to be told a few weeks later that oops, nah, you’re good. It was something else. We don’t know what it was but hey, it wasn’t that, big guy. Then now this?!
Obviously, some follow up will be required with my doctor but as a Christian man, I definitely do not rule out the devil himself. The thing about him is he has no power, unless we equip him with said power. If we listen to him, ’cause that’s basically all he can do is talk, we’re empowering him.
That being said, hearing what a lab coat or a doctor diagnosis and believing it is not the devil talking to you. He can play his games and alter results and numbers through other human fault, and then the fear instilled inside of me being forced to immediately accept these “facts” is more power to him and a downright invite to stick around and stir up even more mayhem and confusion.
He’s a slick character, I’ll tell you what. But he has no place in instilling fear and worry into me. I don’t need to be losing my job over his desire to reconstruct my life for the worse for his amusement. Reminiscent of the alcohol days, a very similar process.
I will seek the truth and disregard his nonsense. I have the God given ability to see it for what it is and I will press on and be grateful for the health I do possess. There is no new soon-to-be falling ceiling placed above me. The sky remains the limit for this young buck.