I cannot describe the moment to you from an on lookers perspective. I cannot give you the particulars of what it looked like for me to plummet down twelve feet from a roof to a concrete floor, perhaps hitting two hard plastic chairs on the way down. I can't even say that there is a slow motion instant replay version of this in my mind. No one was there to film my misstep onto an old aluminum ladder which collapsed with me on it; and down I went humpty-dumpty like with a crash of metal bending and twisting, concave, and after it all, leaning haphazard against the stucco walls of my father in law's house. I'd never anticipated any moment like this. If the flame of a candle could possibly have any self consciousness, and if that flame could consider its own extreme extrinsic contingency, (how its life might be eradicated by an unpredictable rush of an immense wind blitzing against its dancing delicate light against the night sky), that is how my "sucked up" sense of well being felt at the moment of impact, hitting the hardness of cold concrete, my traumatized body in deep and rapid compression, in a state of confused muscular resistance, at the snapping of bones inside me. It's all a flash. No breath. The light, my sight, my flame, my consciousness, sans air and sans oxygen, fading, fading, and almost blown to black. At this instant, the spark of flint striking stone, energizes hot, a chaos, searing pain, confusion. Dark is bright, and white hot light results in blindness. My sense of being, was overshadowed by a mushroom cloud of forming smoky darkness, nauseating, billowing up, as I had a sense of undertow holding fast and pulling me down like quicksand. I think I am in a dream as I'm tugged from sense to senselessness, and back again. My body in flagrant protest of its crushing pain tugs my consciousness, pulling coherent thought into foggy dotty spots and orbs before my eyes, 20-20 incomprehensibility. Random thoughts escape the recesses of my brain and I can't grasp them as they bubble up like leaking oil rising to the surface of a lake. Incoherent phrases, quick articulations, run rough shod upon the thin ice of my consciousness. I blink and wonder if I'd be a corpse today. Then I hear the warmth of a panicked whisper, a voice in ear shot. That panicked voice, though soft, persisted past all the other noise that whirled about me. Like a life preserver, the unsinkable voice outside myself found its way to be my focus, tenacious never giving up.
Cecilia's was a desperate prayer of profound concern especially upon her hearing me wheeze, "I think I'm dying. It's turning dark." She, confused and panicked, asked, "Tom, what can I do? Don't die, oh please don't die. Oh, my Lord, what do I do?" Then she began to pray in syllables not intended for human understanding. These were musical sounds, nursery rhyme like rhythmic patterns with purpose, poetic, emotional, powerful, like some deep metaphysical organizing principal out of which the world we know was formed out of a preexisting chaotic soup. She channeled a profusion of warmth, of order, and confidence in those syllables; the same sounds that take a new born out of panic as its mother lullabies her frightened child into peace and safety. I felt her warm hand over my quickly chilling body. I wheezed out, "I'm not going to sleep. I won't go unconscious, Cecilia. Please get me a glass of sugar water," as she fumbled on the phone trying to dial my wife. Cecilia got through and told my wife I had fallen from the roof and that she should come. Then she called 911. While Cecilia rushed to get the glass of sugar water, I wreathed like a worm feeling the pain snake its way along my ribcage and up and down my arms and legs. Broken back? Not sure. Broken ribs? Not sure. Heart attack? Perhaps. Perhaps all of the above. Broken neck? Not sure. Could I get up? I would try with all my might just to keep the light of consciousness from being blown out by the hurricane force of pain riddling into the very sinews of my upper torso. And I could not breathe. I could tell that lying down was painful; and, as I tried to get to my feet, I could feel that upright, I could breathe better. In a short while, I was sitting somewhat upright in a plastic lawn chair feeling the weight of a rhinoceros standing on my chest.
It was instantaneous. The moment. The accident. The trauma. But so much happened in between the first few minutes that would give me a new understanding about the power of prayer, the gift of consciousness, and even the gift of pain. As it turns out, I broke six ribs that night and punctured my left lung. The accident's trauma was more than I thought I could bare, but I had no idea what was in store for me at the hospital when I had to undergo the insertion of a chest tube to drain the plural sack surrounding my collapsed lung. I think I now have some sense of what it might have been like to be a gladiator and be stabbed by a broad edged sword as the physician inserts his blade without anesthesia. There has never been a pain as "nuclear" in terms of chain reaction, as this pain. Following that would be the pain of the actual insertion of the tube. Then come the medications which relieve the pain and then the diagnosis, prognosis and recovery process. My brother, Ben, who was visiting us from Albuquerque, was at a complete loss of a sense of how to deal with this but he will have no idea how just seeing him as the ambulance carted me away, gave me a sense of context, of family, of love, of all that is good in the world. All of this made me think about the "wonder of healing" in its most comprehensive sense.
I think pain is a necessary precursor to healing. Pain warns us to take some action as something with our body is not quite right. Sometimes pain can be psychological, but no less uncomfortable, again telling us that something needs to be addressed in a manner to fix the cause and not just the symptom.The the pain that is wondrous to me is less the pain of the body and more the pain of crying out to the universe, to God, to friendship, to life itself that my light was going out. And of course, my bones needed to be mended, my lung needed to be fixed, and I needed to allow my gelatinous upper torso regain its vigor through physical therapy. And then there was Esther's patience at having to as we say "aguantar" (to put up with) in Spanish, my having to get around in a walker for several weeks, while still being present with her mom and dad in their elderly and difficult situations. The medical team working on me did wonders that night, but somehow the most important part of the story is not the medicine I received from the medical team, but the prayer said over me by a friend in a panic.
I have always reverenced the "gift of tongues." I myself have never received this most unusual and often times "made fun of" gift of speaking the language of the angels. Although I have to admit, I have at times been guilty of being a little irreverent about those who have received such a gift. I guess ignorance is a true enemy of the truth. Our human penchant to want to be in control and rational forestalls the possibility of God's direct presence through simple vessels, little instruments, making little sounds that can radiate like a blast of trumpets at the touch of the hand and the sound of syllables bubbling out like a tank releasing oxygen from the bottom of a lake. There is something effervescent about that sound I heard that night. The sense of warmth and well being at their sound helped me regain my composure in the midst of acute bodily pain and psychological confusion.
I recovered in three months. I was off pain medications in two. I have since then felt stronger, younger, more alive, and grateful than I did before the fall and the prayer. I am convinced that Cecilia's praying over me indeed might be easily over looked as an irrational moment of a woman in panic, powerless to do anything. The truth is that it was at that moment of her perceived powerlessness, that Cecilia was indeed empowered to heal. Her cup was running over with an unexplainable healing unction that came to her for me because she had the soulful sense (irrational as it might appear to the bystander had there been any) to turn her face to God and simply ask for help. Cecilia became an instrument of peace. Cecilia, my wife's good friend is an uncomplicated soul. Her prayer in the language of angels anointed me with the finest of medicines and her dependence upon God for help made the difference between calamity and calm. Healing is really, in the end, uncomplicated when it is based upon a direct connection to higher powers that can untangle any knot, straighten any wrinkle, and as they say "write straight with crooked lines." Cecilia's prayer of the Holy Spirit breathed upon me allowing me to stay conscious, to have the strength to endure the pains of both the fall and the medicinal fixes. Her decision to turn her face to God in most helpless humble simplicity allowed me to heal, to recover so quickly, and to be all the better for it. I honor that uncomplicated relationship Cecilia has with God. I want that same uncomplicated relationship.
Cecilia's was a desperate prayer of profound concern especially upon her hearing me wheeze, "I think I'm dying. It's turning dark." She, confused and panicked, asked, "Tom, what can I do? Don't die, oh please don't die. Oh, my Lord, what do I do?" Then she began to pray in syllables not intended for human understanding. These were musical sounds, nursery rhyme like rhythmic patterns with purpose, poetic, emotional, powerful, like some deep metaphysical organizing principal out of which the world we know was formed out of a preexisting chaotic soup. She channeled a profusion of warmth, of order, and confidence in those syllables; the same sounds that take a new born out of panic as its mother lullabies her frightened child into peace and safety. I felt her warm hand over my quickly chilling body. I wheezed out, "I'm not going to sleep. I won't go unconscious, Cecilia. Please get me a glass of sugar water," as she fumbled on the phone trying to dial my wife. Cecilia got through and told my wife I had fallen from the roof and that she should come. Then she called 911. While Cecilia rushed to get the glass of sugar water, I wreathed like a worm feeling the pain snake its way along my ribcage and up and down my arms and legs. Broken back? Not sure. Broken ribs? Not sure. Heart attack? Perhaps. Perhaps all of the above. Broken neck? Not sure. Could I get up? I would try with all my might just to keep the light of consciousness from being blown out by the hurricane force of pain riddling into the very sinews of my upper torso. And I could not breathe. I could tell that lying down was painful; and, as I tried to get to my feet, I could feel that upright, I could breathe better. In a short while, I was sitting somewhat upright in a plastic lawn chair feeling the weight of a rhinoceros standing on my chest.
It was instantaneous. The moment. The accident. The trauma. But so much happened in between the first few minutes that would give me a new understanding about the power of prayer, the gift of consciousness, and even the gift of pain. As it turns out, I broke six ribs that night and punctured my left lung. The accident's trauma was more than I thought I could bare, but I had no idea what was in store for me at the hospital when I had to undergo the insertion of a chest tube to drain the plural sack surrounding my collapsed lung. I think I now have some sense of what it might have been like to be a gladiator and be stabbed by a broad edged sword as the physician inserts his blade without anesthesia. There has never been a pain as "nuclear" in terms of chain reaction, as this pain. Following that would be the pain of the actual insertion of the tube. Then come the medications which relieve the pain and then the diagnosis, prognosis and recovery process. My brother, Ben, who was visiting us from Albuquerque, was at a complete loss of a sense of how to deal with this but he will have no idea how just seeing him as the ambulance carted me away, gave me a sense of context, of family, of love, of all that is good in the world. All of this made me think about the "wonder of healing" in its most comprehensive sense.
I think pain is a necessary precursor to healing. Pain warns us to take some action as something with our body is not quite right. Sometimes pain can be psychological, but no less uncomfortable, again telling us that something needs to be addressed in a manner to fix the cause and not just the symptom.The the pain that is wondrous to me is less the pain of the body and more the pain of crying out to the universe, to God, to friendship, to life itself that my light was going out. And of course, my bones needed to be mended, my lung needed to be fixed, and I needed to allow my gelatinous upper torso regain its vigor through physical therapy. And then there was Esther's patience at having to as we say "aguantar" (to put up with) in Spanish, my having to get around in a walker for several weeks, while still being present with her mom and dad in their elderly and difficult situations. The medical team working on me did wonders that night, but somehow the most important part of the story is not the medicine I received from the medical team, but the prayer said over me by a friend in a panic.
I have always reverenced the "gift of tongues." I myself have never received this most unusual and often times "made fun of" gift of speaking the language of the angels. Although I have to admit, I have at times been guilty of being a little irreverent about those who have received such a gift. I guess ignorance is a true enemy of the truth. Our human penchant to want to be in control and rational forestalls the possibility of God's direct presence through simple vessels, little instruments, making little sounds that can radiate like a blast of trumpets at the touch of the hand and the sound of syllables bubbling out like a tank releasing oxygen from the bottom of a lake. There is something effervescent about that sound I heard that night. The sense of warmth and well being at their sound helped me regain my composure in the midst of acute bodily pain and psychological confusion.
I recovered in three months. I was off pain medications in two. I have since then felt stronger, younger, more alive, and grateful than I did before the fall and the prayer. I am convinced that Cecilia's praying over me indeed might be easily over looked as an irrational moment of a woman in panic, powerless to do anything. The truth is that it was at that moment of her perceived powerlessness, that Cecilia was indeed empowered to heal. Her cup was running over with an unexplainable healing unction that came to her for me because she had the soulful sense (irrational as it might appear to the bystander had there been any) to turn her face to God and simply ask for help. Cecilia became an instrument of peace. Cecilia, my wife's good friend is an uncomplicated soul. Her prayer in the language of angels anointed me with the finest of medicines and her dependence upon God for help made the difference between calamity and calm. Healing is really, in the end, uncomplicated when it is based upon a direct connection to higher powers that can untangle any knot, straighten any wrinkle, and as they say "write straight with crooked lines." Cecilia's prayer of the Holy Spirit breathed upon me allowing me to stay conscious, to have the strength to endure the pains of both the fall and the medicinal fixes. Her decision to turn her face to God in most helpless humble simplicity allowed me to heal, to recover so quickly, and to be all the better for it. I honor that uncomplicated relationship Cecilia has with God. I want that same uncomplicated relationship.
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