Jesus, the F-Bomb and Me

Gentle Reader,

For those of you who have never had to endure a week’s worth of methylpredisolone (or however you spell that), this post may not make a whole lot of sense.

I am, essentially, in the throes of ‘roid rage. The ER doc who gave me the meds told me this would happen. I knew it was coming, as I’ve taken it before. Still, it’s a bit shocking to my system.

I want to kick my dogs. I was awake all night. I’m craving large quantities of Arby’s. The stupid nebulizer treatments make me shake like a crack addict undergoing withdrawals. I just ate an entire package of turkey lunchmeat, and I’m mad that there isn’t more in my fridge. Late last night…or was it early this morning?….I became briefly convinced that there was a profound message hidden within the melody of the theme to “The Office.” I haven’t showered, because I feel that if I have to endure this misery, than anyone who comes into contact with me is at least going to have to endure the misery of my smell. Take that.

I really, really want to scream. I want to drop the F-bomb as loud as I possibly can. I am in a tango with despair. How am I ever going to get well if I can’t sleep? Is my life going to consist of uppers and downers and everything in between? Logically, I know that I can’t have acute bronchitis…or whatever this is…forever, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way right now.

Around 8:30 this morning, I wandered from the couch to my bed, hoping that somehow I’d be able to catch some Z’s. My heart was racing and I broke out in a cold sweat. For a second, I thought I was going to die. Is this it? Tangled in the sheets that are attacking me, hair plastered to my skin, blood-shot eyes wildly rolling?

I prayed what was perhaps the most honest prayer of my life.

“Jesus. Dude. You gotta help me. I know that I haven’t read my Bible in almost two weeks. I know that I haven’t been talking to You. I don’t know why. I just got lost somehow. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I miss my church. I miss being able to think. I miss writing. I miss hot chocolate. I don’t know where my glasses are. Jesus, please. I know I’m not a very good person. But I have to think that You know what it means to be really sick, because the New Testament says that You were faced with everything that we are faced with. I want to eat something. I don’t know what, but I hope it’s chocolate. And bacon. Please help me. I need to sleep. I need to breathe. I need to not cough. I need You to come hang out with me right now.”

I drifted off for about an hour after that. I have no idea why I can remember that prayer word for word, but I believe that Jesus was there the whole time – rather, has been here the whole time. Still is. I think He knows that I can barely function enough to write this blog post, and so maybe His Spirit is talking to my spirit in ways that I can’t understand. And that’s okay. In the wee hours of the morning as I was really tripping out and watching the unaired pilot of “The Big Bang Theory” on my computer (it’s quite awful), He was there. As I scarfed up that lunchmeat, He was there. As I struggle against screaming, He’s here. Even if I do scream, He’ll still be here. And He’ll forgive me for it.

Jesus understands me better than I understand me, and I think that He also understands what pharmaceuticals can do to a person from time to time. Do you have any idea how beautiful it is to sit here, knowing that I look like a train has run me over, and to know that Jesus thinks I’m pretty? Do you know how wonderful it is to think that I could put on some vintage Audio A and run around my house talking to the pink daisies and that Jesus would be there, probably laughing?

I feel crazy. Certifiably.

And Jesus is here, just hanging out with me.

I think that’s cool.