“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day …”
Probably half the people reading this have their own version of this story and were driven equally mad by the experience. Here’s how it went for me:
I fell down one step onto a granite floor a long time ago and bumped my bum pretty hard. It looked like nothing but a big red spot on my right hip. Then, like an alien gestating in your stomach, it slowly grew. Before I knew it — and 1,800 trips to the wound doctor later — this “problem wound” turned out to be a Freddy Krueger-grade nightmare.
Two years later — two precious years — this sucker had refused to heal. We tried everything — even experimental stem cell surgery — everything short of going to a tent revival and asking the Lord’s servant on stage to heal me with the fiery right hand of God. (Unfortunately, there are no tent revivals in our area and fiery right hands are in short supply.) We had one option: plastic surgery. I cleared my calendar for a couple of weeks and went under the knife.
The operation went fine. The aftermath was interminable. It is fifth grade physics — the healing of any skin wound only happens when there is no pressure exerted on the wound. No pressure on the hip means that you lie in bed with a pillow under your leg and we’ll check back with you in a month or so. Day after day, that petty pace induces a mental unhinging, kind of like LSD without the bright colors. You don’t know day from night and have no idea what day or date it is. Your brain turns mushy and you start to conjure up things like:
What if I never get