an anxiety-ridden post

I've slipped into a sort of O.C.D. regarding my health. I'm constantly checking my body, searching for anything out of the ordinary, and every time I think I've found something, I have to remind myself that I'm not a doctor, I know close to nothing about the human body, and Joe--who has about fifteen years medical training and countless more years of medical experience in the field--isn't too concerned. I keep taking myself back to that episode of Arrested Development where Michael forces himself to trust in his doctor, the one with medical training; and I'm thankful that Joe has a much better track record than the doctor in that show. My lymph nodes, if indeed swollen, point to infection, not to any sort of cancer. I may have big lymph nodes genetically: Mom does, and the fact that I'm super skinny makes feeling the lymph nodes quite easy (Joe says 3 out of 5 guys my age and build have lymph nodes that can be felt like mine, and Mom's can be felt in her neck just like mine). Joe checked my organs and the nodes throughout the rest of my body (minus the ones in my gut, which are spread throughout my organs), and he did a series of tests and X-Rays, and he says that minus the lymph nodes in my groin, everything's in tip-top shape. That my groin nodes haven't gone down isn't too alarming: I may just need another sort of antibiotic. Many of my "symptoms" are probably directly related to stress: periodic difficulty breathing, back pains, etc. And to be sure, my stress has gone through the roof (and in moments without stress, as is quite telling, I feel fine). I found lumps on my head and freaked out, thinking they were melanoma: but they're too small and don't fit the characteristics of skin cancer; most likely they're bug-bites, some sort of scalp infection, or just bumps. 

The anxiety, you can imagine, has been crippling. I look forward to work like never before, if only because when we're crazy and swamped my attention's turned from my problems and on to other things. But when the day's over, when I'm back home, the anxiety floods like the Gulf through New Orleans (too soon?), and it often becomes so overwhelming that I HAVE to leave the house. I go on random drives with the window rolled down and A.C. blasting, driving up and down Rt. 50 and through Eden Park and back, or into northern Kentucky where the stars are bright and the country smells calming, and I try to reason myself out of the anxiety or try to get lost in other thoughts. Being around people makes me all the more anxious, and so I've been isolating myself. I've started chugging NyQuil again to fall asleep, because the fear keeps me up. Many times I've woken in the middle of the night gripped by panic, or fallen asleep with quiet tears and frightening thoughts.

Is there a possibility that something is seriously wrong? Sure. That's the case with everyone. We like to think we're destined to die in our old age after a wonderful, dream-filled life. We're half-right: we're destined to die, and that's that. Our own conviction that we'll die "at the right time" serves only to reinforce how solipsistic we are, how our worldviews are so heavily anchored in ego-centrism. We push away the fact that people die all the time "before their time," taken by accidents or diseases or the evils of other people, assuming "early retirement" is something that happens to other people. It's something we see in the News, or in prayer bulletins, or in second-hand gossip. Until Death comes crashing into our lives like the murderous thief it is, he often remains conceptual and abstract. We are born with only one guarantee--"You will die."--and it's a fate we often ignore, or push aside, or deny entirely. But it's a fate that we're destined to experience, a fate the vast majority of our world has already experienced. We're their successors, and we'll go the same route.

I always assumed Death would come to me in my ripe old age. I never imagined I could be taken "early," but the last few weeks have honed in that point quite well. In my youth I assumed that God had some plan for me, that I would do something great for his kingdom. I thus assumed that Death would not visit me until these things came to pass, when I'd left my mark. But this assumption goes against the fact that so many Christians who have felt the same way have had their expectations dashed, and it runs contrary to the biblical declaration that though Death has been defeated--shown in Jesus' own death and resurrection--it remains a prominent feature of the landscape. Though defeated, death remains to be eradicated. Crippled, wounded, destined for annihilation Death may be; but it's a destiny that hasn't yet come to pass, and we still live under its shadow. Death, the New Testament tells us, visits us all; but it has lost its sting, for those who are "in Christ" may die, but we will have the last word: as Christ rose from the dead, so we, too, shall rise. I fully believe that when Death comes, those in God's covenant family will be in paradise with Jesus and all the other saints. And I believe that when Jesus appears to judge the Living and the Dead and to remake the heavens and the earth, those who've spent their afterlife in a place of beauty, peace, joy and rest will take their place beside Christ in his appearance. And in their new bodies, these glorified saints won't simply observe the recreation of the cosmos but also participate in it.

This is a beautiful picture, and though it may just be some mythological fantasy, it's a damned good one. This doesn't mean, however, that it removes the fear. I've been thinking a lot about Gethsemane lately: "What was it that Jesus feared?" Crediting the bible with authority, it certainly wasn't due to the unknown lying on the other side of the cross. Jesus knew well what lied on the other side, evidenced in his own confident assertion to the criminal dying beside him: "Today you will be with me in paradise." What Jesus feared, I think, was that which he'd never experienced, something that would soon become very real to him: death itself. He wept and he prayed that God would spare him, but God did not. And Jesus' own anxiety was so great that he sweated blood. Jesus felt fear facing death, and he endured it and came out the other side. I find comfort knowing that my king who's gone before me experienced incredible, crippling fear despite his faith in God and despite knowing what awaited him the other side of death. Fearing death is an unmistakable human condition, and I hope and pray that when that day comes, be it sooner or later, I'll face it with confidence and trust in God amidst the fear.