For me, the summer and autumn of 2010 was a bad period, even though it led to the only moment of prayer and reverence in my entire life. Readers and fans of this blague know that I have more than once reported that I was born into a purely, even aggressively, atheistic family and that have remained an unquestioning atheist to this day. So what happened, you ask, in 2010 to cause me to lapse once and only once from a lifelong want of belief?
It began with a ruptured disc, which is, as fellow-sufferers know so well, an extremely painful condition. Surgery was recommended, but by every statistical measure, surgery works only half the time, and therefore I was reluctant and frightened to be cut, and instead figured that if I could just wait out the pain, perhaps the affliction would heal itself, as, I was assured, it usually does. So I lay on my back, crawled to the bathroom once a day, and started taking drugs. Powerful drugs: oxycodons every four hours, those big 600 mg ibuprofens several times a day, lots of valium to deal with the agitation, steroids (some by mouth and some injected directly into my back), and because of the insomnia, more ambien than was absolutely necessary along with some other miscellaneous pills and tablets, the names of which I can't quite recall. It was my fault, in part -- I had too many doctors and no one was in charge, so various medical people prescribed various pills, and because I was in such pain, I gobbled them all.
After two months, I was still in acute debilitating pain and I had to face the fact that my plan wasn't working and that something had to be done. I submitted to surgery at the end of August down there at the Mary Hitchcock Hospital in Lebanon. Relief was instantaneous -- why had I waited so long? But I was now faced with the problem of drug withdrawal. Not having good medical advice, I became the coldest of turkeys.
My digestive system went completely out of whack. For days, perhaps two or three weeks, I could tolerate only the blandest foods. I survived on baked potatoes and very little else. My heartbeat was very high and settled to an even 110 for six weeks. I was agitated and nervous.I suffered from dramatic night sweats -- two or three times I woke up with nightclothes soaked and dripping. Muscle cramps.
And also severe constipation which led to badly bleeding hemorrhoids. For six weeks, whenever I had to "honor a call of nature," I'd look into the pot -- bright bright red. Day after day. "O no! When is this going to end?" And then one blessed day -- and here at last comes the moment of pure religion -- I hesitantly inspected the bowl, and miracle of miracles-- no blood. And I cried out, spontaneously, without forethought, these words: "Glory be to God."
What god? I wasn't in a theological frame of mind, but in retrospect, it may have been Cloacina, the Roman goddess of sewers, to whom I directed my fervent thanks. Or possibly Sterquilinus, although he was more a god of manure and fertilizer than of the toilet bowl.
The good old Romans -- a god for all occasions! Even for me.
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