replacing
Worry
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Tag Archives: holy spirit
REALLY!
Pee or plea?
Tonight I decided our toilet seat had mocked me long enough. My husband adhered the smiley adornment about two years. A Christmas gift from his brother, that had to be used, and used for its intended bathroom purpose. His brother is a gem and gives the best hugs and joke presents. However, his Christmas gifts can also be wildly outrageous, near insulting or absolutely offensive. There is The Gift of the Maji and then there is the present of Brett.
Brett’s happy toilet seat was on its way out of our house; I bought a replacement on my way home. I walked right into the bathroom to complete the quick switcheroo before I sat down to dinner (and before my husband came home from second shift). As I stood over the commode nemesis, and reached to the right, the first seat bolt came right out. The seat bolt on the left was relentless. It didn’t budge at all. I squatted down for better leverage. No movement. I laid on my side, to get a better view and grip. The bolt was tightened beyond the maximum and my too small hands could not loosen the bond at all. After 20 minutes, I was still determined to unhinge the smile. I left the bathroom to fetch some tools.
I came back with grips and a metal wrench to unscrew a plastic-coated bolt. I leaned in under the toilet, grabbed hold of the bolt with the wrench, and still could not break the hold. I got back on my side, positioned the wrench around the octagonal top of the screw, and tried as hard as I could to create a turn. I tried multiples times as more minutes ticked by. On one desperate attempt, I held my breath and grabbed hold again with my second hand, forcing as hard as I could to the left. I succeeded – only in snapping off the bottom part of the plastic exterior coating.
I threw the plastic tip away, gave in to being so close to the yuckiest place of a home, and laid down on the bathroom floor snuggling up to the toilet. I was fully committed.
I repeated everything I had already tried. I grabbed on with the wrench a dozen more times, desperately awaiting any give in the fastening. I held on with both hands, and on my umpteenth try, realized I was more likely to break my wrist than break the bolt’s hold.
Before that actually did happen, I needed to call in the big guns. I was not leaving my position until I knew the toilet seat was coming off! I reached up to the edge of the bathroom counter for my cell phone. Not to view a how-to video or to call in extra muscles. Rather, I Googled for a Saint.
There are thousands of saints; saints for every ailment, occasion and need. This was my aha! moment. Saints intercede during impossible and difficult times. I needed to know there was a Saint that could help with my situation. There are saints for everything, I convinced myself.
As a Catholic-raised child, I knew of St. Nicholas, St. Patrick, St. Christopher. We learned of saints for confirmation and I was St. Bernadette, hailing from Lourdes. We read of St. Theresa and St. Jude.
I didn’t think I was a hopeless case just yet, so I took the next step. I considered how to pose my URL question. On my back, on the bathroom floor, I googled “Saint of janitorial support”. When the result came up, she was staring right back at me – Saint Zita.
This Italian Saint entered domestic service at age 12 and spent 48-years serving the same family. Known for doing ordinary things extraordinarily well, she was also reputed for her kindness and generosity to the poor.
I opened my heart and spoke a prayer, on my back next to the toilet, that went something like this: . “Saint Zita, I need your help and guidance. With your lifetime of service, you must have knowledge and strength to assist at this moment. I realize my need is trivial compared to your works of charity. Please assist me to loosen this bolt and I will continue to spread The Word. I believe in the intercession of saints. I plea to you for help, as I grab hold one last time. St. Zita, loosen this bolt with me; I ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
I clamped the wrench over the nut as securely as I could, grabbed on with two hands and yelled, as loud as I could, “ZzziiIIIttTTaaaAA!!!”
My wrench shifted to the left and my hands fell to the floor in exhaustion. In peaceful awe, I slowly reached up with my right hand and witnessed a loose bolt that had been set free. I thanked Zita and picked up my phone to read more before I finished my, our, mission.
Saint Zita died in 1272, at age 60, at the Fatinelli family home in Lucca, Italy. Her body was exonerated in 1580 and was determined to be incorrupt. Her body is still on display for public veneration at a Bassilica in Lucca.
I believe that the Holy Spirit, and Zita’s spirit, is alive and well. There are large and small acts if we maintain our faith. While I have experienced and written about more significant intercessions of the Saints, they do meet you in times of need. I realized I had tears in my eyes when I stood up and looked in the bathroom mirror.
They were joyous tears and I laughed out loud. St. Zita was the key to my happy night in the can. As a trusted and valued servant, St. Zita is depicted with a bag of keys. The janitorial key reference is often appealed to when keys are lost. I decided that I will tell my brother-in-law how much happiness his toilet seat provided. I’ll sit him down for the whole little chat, but only of course, after I hide his keys.
Post Script (P.S.) – When I finally started eating dinner, I realized I #praywiththesaints. I said a prayer for the one long-term domestic servant I know. An elderly woman in town, Anna, whom still cleans houses to supplement her social security. I know in her younger days, she also took care of my ill grandmother. Guilds have been established in Zita’s honor, to care for the aged and incurably ill. My prayer was for Anna to receive an unexpected blessing.
So it is written
Kipling Cliff Notes
Impressions
Fallen,
Flattened
…breathing at the sky.
Flailing,
Flying
…admiring my new wings.
ENG – patient view
After waiting three months for my ENT appointment, I looked forward to finally getting tested. Although my balance issues no longer have me falling into walls, my stutter-stepping to the left and off-center handrail grabbing are still undiagnosed. After a normal MRI, the neurologist suggested a long-awaited electronystagmography.
The test is conducted in three parts. I sat, reclined and laid down as the specialist spent 90 minutes trying to “trick my brain”. The electrodes on my head captured all the eye movements, timing delays and robotic data while my mind released moving ceiling tiles, rushing blood and primary counting prowess.
For the first test, I followed a light with my eyes from left to right and right to left. I did the same from top to bottom and bottom to top. Repeat. Not since 1973 Pong gameplay had I watched an on-screen ball for so long. The phase 1 test finished with me tracking a sequence of flat red dots from right to left and left to right, until I thought I’d flat-lined.
For the second test I opened and closed my eyes at the doctor’s command as I turned left and right. After each series, I counted forward or back from 50 by twos. When she told me to lie down, I reclined but there was no longer a pillow or upper half of the exam table. I went past horizontal, was caught and then quickly thrown back into a sitting position, making me feel like a trapeze artist. Before the blood flow to my head adjusted, I was told to count backward from 200 by 3’s. I was mentally exhausted as we ran the test a second time.
The final phase was the part I’d read about online. I knew that cold and warm water, or air, would be pumped into my ear while lying down. I was more than curious how this would work, without damaging my ear drums? I learned the doctor would blow cold air, not water, into my left ear for one minute.
“Some people feel like it’s a long time but trust me, it’s only a minute.”
Her words were not comforting.
“Pssschht!’ the sound made me feel like I was a tire getting inflated. 60 seconds is, in fact, a long time.
She moved to the other side. I decided a minute of this sensation was long enough to think about something else and say a few prayers until time ended. After each test side, I counted backwards. Perhaps just long enough for me to adjust while she re-calibrated the machine?
The warm air followed the cold and was the very last part, assured the doctor. As soon as she began the test in my right ear, not even prayers were enough. I writhed, wriggled, stiffened, grabbed onto the table and bent my knees. The temperature seemed to be increasing! I tapped my boot and kicked my ankles but dared not move my head. Air that started off like a warm compress quickly became a campfire in my ears. I released a loud groan when the hot sensation graduated to flamethrower level.
“How do you feel?” asked the testing physician.
I wanted to punch her in the head. I felt the need to smash all the technology to bits with a rubber mallet and pickaxe! My fleeting thought was to run out of the room screaming!
I considered giving my real answer; “Like torched maki before the chopsticks.” Instead, I posed a not-hypothetical question, “Do people feel nauseous after the test?”
“Everyone reacts differently. Would you like to wait a bit before continuing?”
“Yes, please.” adding, “What temperature was that and how much did it increase?”
“50 degrees; the same temperature the whole time.”
Liar!
I said nothing, focusing instead on my saliva production and the somersaults in my belly. There was one-minute left of testing but I didn’t want to get sick with a near-match in my head. I decided to endure and asked the doctor to finish the test. The left ear was uncomfortable but didn’t seem to increase in heat level like the first. Maybe it was because I knew what was coming? Maybe because she screwed up the test?
I ‘ll probably never learn the answer . I did know what was coming next, from me though. I actually thanked her and then ran out of the room and into the bathroom near the checkout counter. I teetered to the left as I vomited what was left of my scorched brains out. My departure was not a graceful exit by any means. I had to stay in the lobby until I recovered enough to drive myself home.
I look forward to learning the results. Although I made it through the exam, I still want to know why I reacted so badly. The doctors and schedulers never suggested I not eat breakfast before the test. Based on my experience, I would recommend no food beforehand and a buddy companion for the ride home afterward.
Have you ever had an exam that was worse than the symptoms?
I am who I am
EVERYTHING
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1 Thessalonians 5:18
Chronicles
Look to the Lord and his strength, seek his face always.
1 Chronicles 16:11
Ms Toy Whisperer 