iron lung – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

November 29, 2017

Hidden Limp

What about my demons?

Joining up with Jesus in chasing out the devil, invoking his name, watching a man set free from fear, maybe even death. This is living!

An other-worldly thrill comes on the heels of such triumph. But then, as with many of life’s highs, a larger reality finds a way of settling in. Troubling questions may follow.

What of my own demons?

I had met Christ dramatically in my youth. His presence flooding over and through me, wave on wave, at my Yes to a simple invitation voiced by a real estate agent – “Would you like more of Jesus?”

God had kept me from the prison of an iron lung, had brought my useless, polio-smitten legs to life.

His relentless Spirit had, later on, chased after me and my rebellious teen heart. Such love at work had melted me to brokenness and restored me to my family.

And, wonder of wonders, he brought to me my most prized treasure, an inside/outside beauty from the Big Sky state of Montana. It had been Ann who waited with Jerry’s wife for us two men to complete our deliverance ministry assignment with a traumatized African youth.

And even a call to Christian service. Overseas, no less.

Yet.

My secret held on. And its attending darkness.

The night Lawrence violated me in my pre-puberty childhood had set the stage for compounded issues fueled by shame. Through wrongful, impure ways I had gotten exposed to sexuality. This set in motion desires I knew to be wrong.. Repeated cycles of guilt-inducing thoughts and behaviors naturally followed. Behaviors I knew to be wrong but which plagued me regardless how I tried to resist. And try I did.

So, while on the one hand my life was marked by blessings nearly too good to be true, I struggled deeply with periodic bouts of distress over crippling addictions.

Crippled. A missionary with a limp.

June 2, 2015August 28, 2017

Prescription – Pain. Somber Prediction

Mom’s fly swatter instruction of past times over my use of bad words met with failure in Hillcrest Hospital’s therapy room.

Hold his hip firm against the table. Steady now. Here we go – Up with the right leg.

Two people in white – a spindly man and a large-boned woman – stood opposite each another at the therapy bench. I lay face-up between them. They applied stretch treatments to paralysis-affected limbs. The therapy helped arrest stiffening of the muscles.

I took in their words. The stretching maneuver was underway. The leg in motion, kept straight as a board by pressure of a hand on my kneecap, rose upward. The stiffer the muscles the greater the strain. And the pain. Up, up until a searing sharpness passed through my leg, prompting me – their child-patient – to bark *%#$! Though not loudly.

The therapists shared knowing but not unkind smiles. Neither spoke. Their tasks – these disguised angels – inflicting pain on helpless children. Surely this brought pain their way.

An Australian nurse, Sister Elizabeth Kenny, had devised an effective treatment to limber up the muscle tissue of paralyzed limbs. Nurses at Hillcrest wrapped me, along with my polio peeps, in confining, steaming hot packs (I close my eyes today and smell the heavy, moist odor of sweltering chamois-like blankets). Mercifully the blankets held my body in their constricting grip for only short periods.

I never swore about the hot packs. As I grew older I extended myself grace over the therapy-table profanity lapse. Though not justified, cursing can slip through a set of teeth in a moment of sharp pain.

Remedial pain. Our world is rich with special Wisdom Sayings when we pause to listen. Some of these coach us about preventing needless pain; others on the actual usefulness of it.

Our limpings – whether of a physical or of a nonphysical nature – can meet with useful pain at times. Yet, we have to pay attention to detect the usefulness.

He who will not be taught by his elders will be taught by the world, African seniors counsel their youth.

No discipline is enjoyable. . it’s painful! But afterward there will be a peaceful harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way. the Bible’s ‘Book of Hebrews’.

My father and mother didn’t discipline me perfectly. Nor have I my own children. Yet, we do our children no favor by withholding loving – and yes unpleasant – correction when needed. Emphasis – Loving. Just as failing to administer pain-inducing treatments to better a patient would, in fact, be unkind.

Still, my condition worsened. From waistline to feet my limbs went useless. My upper body declined, my respiratory muscles weakened. An attending doctor informed my parents I would not walk again. Regardless.

A stuffed black Terrier Pup consoled me – along with one particular nurse. While specialists discussed my case – and the Iron Lung.

Question. What caught your interest most in this post? I’m very interested in thoughts, feelings of any readers. Thanks again for following! Alert! In part due to reader requests, Soon we’ll post Running Life’s Race Twice weekly instead of one per week – doubling the episodes. 🙂

*hot pack photo.nurse: OHSU Historical Collections & Archives

May 26, 2015August 28, 2017

Falling

My brother Tim and I fought. Not excessively but – as with many close siblings – enough.

By my second year in elementary school I learned more than counting and reciting the alphabet. To my communication skills I added profanity. Never mind my ignorance of definitions, my enlarged vocabulary was picked up mostly on school playgrounds.

I practiced cursing on my brother at least once. Angry with Tim over nothing noteworthy I unleashed a stream of language at a far higher volume than was wise. My mother overheard the rants and seized an educational opportunity. About two things. (1) Resourcefulness. The wire-handle end of her fly swatter-turned-switch. (2) Awareness. Of a zero-tolerance policy for profanity in our home. From that day if I wasn’t fully cured I was clearly more discreet.

Mother was also compassionate. Back of our house the ground sloped gently downward, to a simple red barn where we boys often played. Beyond this was a pasture. I had recently turned nine. From a window mother saw my struggle.

I ambled from the barn toward the house. In mid-step my leg gave way. I fell. Lifting myself up I walked a short distance, then went down again. By the third or fourth tumble my mom was hurrying my way. She helped me to the house. My dad responded to her call and we were soon en route to the local doctor’s office.

Learning of my earlier polio bout the physician assumed this was not likely the same affliction. By now both legs entirely failed to work. I was admitted, limbs weakened and stiffening, into our local hospital. My condition worsened. Another physician was called in. He ran tests and soon conveyed his findings.

Poliomyelitis.

Hillcrest Hospital occupies a spot near downtown Tulsa on historic Route 66. The virus spread rapidly across the country. Hillcrest administrators concisely labelled one of its wings the polio ward. The patients – mostly children – were confined to beds positioned at varied elevated angles. Specific treatment of the patient seemed to dictate the bed’s positioning. A freer flow of air was critical for those with strained breathing muscles.

Through an open doorway I glimpsed a daunting, one-occupant contraption (a word my dad used for any curious object). It reminded me at first of a greatly-enlarged tin can lying sideways. Several patients lay each in their own iron lung – their exposed head wresting on a pillow atop a small extended platform. In most cases the iron lung was critical for staying alive.

We entered a multi-patient room. With the help of my mom, a nurse settled me into a designated bed. A sudden cramp assaulted my limbs. I grimaced. After a time the pain lessened.

I relaxed a little. And guessed I would be here awhile.

Note: In ‘Comments’ I’d love to hear from anyone who’s experienced polio or perhaps a family member? Be free to share a little insight/experience if you wish.