“You can’t do that.”
“That can’t happen.”
“Hm-mm. No way.”
I know the looks. After 12 years, I can feel them. I hear the unspoken asides. “He’s having you on, mate. There’s nothing wrong with him. Look at ‘im. Does he look to you like any of that stuff really happened?”
“You don’t look, y’know . . .”
What? Sick? Impaired? Limited? Disabled? The saying goes, “If you’ve ever been there you need no explanation. If you haven’t, you wouldn’t believe it, anyway.” To a survivor of life-threatening disease and ongoing chronic illness, you have no idea what hurts statements like that cause.
Yes, there are a host of people who game the assistance system. They are professional moochers who have nothing in common with the tremendous, gutsy people I know who live daily with the results of ongoing, even progressive chronic illness. So get those moochies out of your mind.
“But you don’t look . . . y’know—” Would it make you feel better if I did look weird? Drag one leg, have three ears?
No. I don’t. I don’t try to, don’t want to. Though I’ve rated a ‘Disabled’ tag for a dozen years, I refuse to have one. I can walk. Do yard work. Help neighbors. Sure, I wear out fast, but rather than focus on what I no longer have or can’t do, I’d rather keep reaching for what I now have and CAN do.
So, no. I’m not trying to look puny and infirmed. You can’t see the 20 years’ worth of external, internal and emotional scars because I don’t walk around naked and you can’t see inside. I don’t walk around looking pitiful, trolling for sympathy.
That’s the point. I’m alive, functioning, IV free and so blessed I’m having to write a book to help me process it–and help you understand it.
In a nutshell, I’m gutless. God issued me around 21 feet of nifty, new small intestine, of which I have 18 inches left. The rest of it died. Fast. No cancer. It sure acted like it, though. After each surgical resect to stay ahead of the necrosis, once air hit it, it was, “Here we go again!” It meant business, and almost killed me three times before my top-drawer, world-class surgeon double-teamed with my amazing personal doctor to pin the Small Bowel Adhesion Disease and defeat it.
Never heard of it? You’re in good company. I think they made it up because they hadn’t encountered it quite like that before and didn’t know what to call it.
I can’t explain why God chose me to heal, back in early February of 2003. There was nothing noteworthy about my life or accomplishments that jumped up and down with both hands raised, yelling, “ME! ME! PICK ME, GOD!” I just know when The Master stopped by and dropped that Forever pebble in my pool, everything changed.
All the medical pros agreed I wasn’t supposed to survive. I’m still not. I am disabled. Small intestines don’t grow back. Yes, I still have several challenging chronic issues with which I daily live. They’re part of my ‘now’.
But, YES–I’m ridiculously, undeservedly blessed to be living and able to write encouragement into your day! I can’t explain it any better than to say this.
Sometimes God just decides to say, “Neener,” and does things for His own reasons.
And I think He does it to remind us: Where GOD is concerned, ain’t no such thing as ‘impossible’.
His response? “Keep your eyes on Me, stop doubting, and you watch Me.”
© D. Dean Boone, February 2016