God is good in the digestive system.

We all have living things inside us called organs. There are a variety of organ systems such as the cardiovascular system (heart, blood, vessels), digestive system (esophagus, stomach, liver, gallbladder, pancreas, intestines, colon), endocrine system (hormones, adrenal glands), excretory system (kidneys, bladder), immune system (tonsils, spleen, lymph between tissues in the blood stream), integumentary system (skin, hair, nails), muscular system, nervous system (spinal chord, brain, nerves), reproductive system, respiratory system (larynx, trachea, lungs, diaphragm), and skeletal system (bones, cartilage, tendons). Within our brain, we have worlds and memories, and mush, and the desire to know or want to live in oblivion against all understanding of our inner and outer elements.
Since my papaw started dying, I’ve become very observant of my hands. They feel like recycled material. The lines in my fingers and palms are sensitively numb and each feels like a small paper cut. I can’t stop staring at them. I can also feel my blood moving when I’m absolutely still. It’s like a current, and my white blood cells are the bass that swim up stream. I try to concentrate on the organs I know nothing about – I try to organize my own symptoms in relation to Papaw’s. It’s a city in there – a suburban war.
They say the youth feel invincible, but when I get on a plane or in a car, my autopilot is an understanding and acceptance of death. It may happen today, I tell myself, and then I drive. When I went in the room to see him, he’s lying in the hospital room with his blue hospital gown. I wake him up and he embraces me close, whispering “oh, my baby,” over and over in my ear. He says, “I think you’d walk all the way down here to see your papaw if you had to, wouldn’t you baby?” and “Papaw’s going to be alright” and “All my children are with me.” He’s got his two kids: my uncle and my mom. He’s got his two grandchildren: my brother and I. He tells my mom, “I love those kids. If I had to, I’d cut myself down the middle and give a foot to one and one to the other.” We laugh. My uncle tells my aunt is pregnant, and he can’t stop saying, “God is good, God is good.” Those are some of the last words I’ll hear my papaw say.
He’s dying today. God is good. He has pancreatitis and he doesn’t know why God would do this to him, now, after all the times he’s fought. I say our organs are living, because they move, which in turn makes us move. He’s losing blood, and gaining it. He’s dying, but living on sedation. God can’t make up his mind. No, he knows what the plan is, but our organs don’t. But, doesn’t God live in some cavity of our heart? This all started with Papaw’s open heart surgery. Maybe, God’s in that heart of his, tinkering. Maybe he’s in there praying, letting the organs stretch and secrete on their own. It’s all about the “maybe’s.” Until the day we all go, we will label and answer what we really don’t know. We don’t know.

Published by celinamcmanus

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