Last week,

on a Tuesday at 7:30 a.m., I was in downtown Atlanta when I was stabbed

in the abdomen five times. Okay, I had my gall bladder removed, but the

surgeon still had to make five incisions in my body.

You have to

understand that I believe using an oral thermometer is an "invasive

procedure." A nurse in our church said, "My gosh, what do you

think about a rectal thermometer?" I replied, "I call that assault.

Or at least I think it's covered under Georgia's sodomy laws."

I get nitrous

oxide to get my teeth cleaned. Not that I'm a coward. I just believe in

"No pain, no pain."

It all started

so simply, really. A week before, on a Monday, I drove to my doctor's

to check on my triglycerides and my weight. It was just a routine visit.

My triglycerides were lower than the last visit and I had lost 24 pounds

in two months. Anyway, the doc asked, "Anything else I should know

about?"

I told him

about some severe cramping I had been having in my right side the upper

right abdominal quadrant, he called it, sounding like a Trekkie ("Commander

Riker, take us into the upper right quadrant of the abdominal system").

He sent me immediately for a sonogram where I discovered that I had perfect

kidneys, a good spleen, a great liver, and a gall bladder full of stones.

On Wednesday,

I was in the surgeon's office where, following an EKG (results: normal)

and a chest X-ray (results: normal), I was scheduled for surgery the following

Tuesday. So, at age 52, I was facing my very first surgery, assuming that

you don't count the hernia repair that I had at age 9 months and don't

recall. I also had my tonsils out when I was seven, which was a miserable

experience, but the nurses were sweet and brought me ice cream.

When people

asked me if I was nervous, I replied, "Not really. Curious, mostly."

For over 30 years, I had been on the "other side" of the hospital

bed hundreds of times, so this would be a different experience.

On the day

of the surgery, I got up at 4 a.m. (an hour before the Marines get up

in boot camp) in order to get to the hospital by 5:30 a.m. I soon discovered

that there is no modesty in the hospital. The area where they put patients

awaiting surgery is a bit like a stable with curtains instead of doors.

In mere minutes, all vestiges of civilization had been removed and all

the nervous patients were clothed in a backless, tush-revealing, gown

and fitted with a plastic bracelet with our names on it so that, I suppose,

the right surgery would be done on the right person.

Around 6 a.m.

one of our priests and a deacon came to pray for me. My bishop, who had

to drive some 70 miles, also arrived by 6:30 a.m. to pray for me. God

bless 'em all.

Eventually,

they came for me, wheeled me into the operating room where, in a few moments,

I was blissfully unconscious. In a couple of hours, after successfully

delivering an unhealthy gall bladder full of 50-60 stones, I woke up to

the searing pain that comes with being punctured five times and having

your organs moved around. Someone said they pulled my gall bladder out

through my navel, information which I wish I didn't possess. Within a

very short time, thankfully, I was introduced to Mr. Morphine and Ms.

Demerol who made life tolerable.

I spent one

night in the hospital, was sent home, and a few days later was feeling

great. Well, not great, but much better than I expected to feel.

I did learn

a few things that will change the way I do hospital ministry. First of

all, prayer was important. Knowing that people were praying kept me from

being overly fearful.

Secondly, I

learned that I have been staying way too long after people have surgery.

I usually stay 20-30 minutes. Most of my visitors stayed 10-15 minutes,

which was plenty. I deeply appreciated their visits but was glad no one

stayed a long time. I even sent my wife and son home for the night several

hours before they had planned to leave.

Thirdly, I

learned to not make jokes anymore. Nothing is funny after surgery and,

if it is, laughing is terribly painful.

Fourthly, I

discovered that I mostly wanted to be left alone. Not totally alone, but

mostly. It's hard to go to the bathroom, or turn over when you are groaning,

or even pray when someone else is in the room.

But I also

learned that even pain and suffering can be presented to God in prayer

as an "offering." Surgery, as those who have endured it can

testify, makes you feel helpless, vulnerable, exposed, and weak. In such

circumstances, when one trusts in God's grace and mercy, the "Divine

One can touch the common (the patient) and something holy can occur.

It's almost

sacramental, if one looks for the Presence of God in those troubling situations.

Still, I did discover that, however I eventually die, I do hope that I'm

not stabbed to death. That hurts like heck!

[Father David

Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church, which

meets at 10 a.m. Sundays at 4881 E. Hwy 34. He may be contacted at 770-252-2428,

at [email protected] or at www.ctkcec.org.]