Positive Thinking Pitfalls - Falling for Lies

For all the Athenians and the foreigners…spent their time in nothing else but either to tell or to hear some new thing. Then Paul…said, “Men of Athens, I perceive that in all things you are very religious; for as I was passing through and considering the objects of your worship, I even found an altar with this inscription:

TO THE UNKNOWN GOD…”

Acts 17:3 NKJV

…because, although they knew God, they did not glorify Him as God, nor were thankful, but became futile in their thoughts, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools, and changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like corruptible man – and birds and four-footed animals and creeping things.

Romans 1:25 NKJV

And my speech and my preaching were not with persuasive words of human wisdom, but in demonstration of the Sprit and of power, that your faith should not be in the wisdom of men but in the power of God. However, we speak…not the wisdom of this age, nor of the rulers of this age,

who are coming to nothing.

I Corinthians 2: 4:6 NKJV

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            Parker had acted in such an animated, nervous way during his visit that I asked him if seeing me in bed, hooked up to tubes and wires, bothered him. He nodded such a vehement “yes” that Chris and I decided that Parker wouldn’t be returning again to the hospital to visit me.

           

            Throughout the weekend, Dr. Gordon checked in three or four times a day and kept us apprised of my status and his treatment plans. When I stabilized to his satisfaction, he would transport me to Palomar Hospital in Escondido, which had several physicians specializing in high-risk pregnancies. He knew I feared being released into the care of my regular obstetrician, who hadn’t called to speak with me or confer with him.

           

            The medical director and my primary care physician had called, however, attempting to obtain my speedy release. Dr. Gordon remained adamant in his refusal to allow movement of any kind until I stabilized. As my stay lengthened, I sensed a battle culminating between my original medical group, (who once again seemed obsessively concerned about the charges being tallied up at a non-provider hospital), and Dr. Gordon. Fortunately, Dr. Gordon’s primary concern was practicing good medicine and protecting me.  

           

            My brain alarm bells rang when I learned of the higher-than-average maternal death rate statistics at the hospital where I’d been scheduled to deliver. (One of my nurses, who worked at both this and the other hospital, provided that jaw-dropping morsel of information.)

           

            If the paramedics had transported me there, I might not have survived.      

           

            The realization started to sink in that God was present, and He had intervened in my care. That realty was underscored when Dr. Gordon informed me that if the bleeding had started fifteen minutes earlier – in the car on my drive home that night – I would have bled to death. The massive blood loss would have quickly sent me into a coma before I reached a highway call box to phone for help. All of this startling information forced a decision that should have been made months earlier: I would never return to my former physician and medical group for care.

           

            Meditating more on God’s presence and the miracles played out, I prayed again for yet another one to occur: saving the life of my unborn child.

                                               

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            Four days I lay in that lonely hospital room, attempting to entertain myself by vacillating between watching television, praying halting, apprehensive prayers, and attempting to master mind-over-matter New Age principles. I was more familiar with those techniques than authentic, power-harnessing prayer; liberal college professors had successfully integrated them into my thinking.

           

            If I could just think enough positive thoughts and visualize myself getting well – holding a beautiful, healthy newborn infant in my arms – I might gain control over my health and positively affect the outcome – maybe even rectify the ordeal and heal myself!

           

            This religion (and a religion it certainly is!) promotes the doctrine that all of us – possessing a “natural power” within – have the potential to be like God, or even become “little gods.”

           

            It’s a horrible hoax that sounds like the lie first uttered in the Garden of Eden, pleasingly and seducingly wrapped in twenty-first century euphemisms. “Then the serpent said to the woman, …‘For God knows that in the day you eat of [the fruit of the tree in the midst of the garden] your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil’” (Genesis 3:4-5 NKJV).

           

            It’s not just constructive positive thinking, which is proven to positively affect a person’s health and pain tolerance levels. It’s the ardent belief that deep within we all possess the capacity to rise to God’s level, or achieve perfect enlightenment, if we spend time meditating on, calling forth, and harnessing that otherwise concealed, undeveloped energy – and in the process spend an inordinate amount of time concentrating on ourselves and practicing goodness. In many people’s mind that latter point adds everlasting brownie points to their personal tally to get elevated to the next rung on the eternal holiness ladder. You’ve convinced yourself – and perhaps others – that you’re a “good” person. But just how good do you have to be? 

           

            And then there’s that concept of reincarnation.

           

            A pastor had recently divulged to me that in order for him to believe in a “loving God,” he had to believe in reincarnation: the chance to do it over until he got it right. I blinked at him. “Get what right?” I wondered. How long had it been since he’d seriously studied Scripture, or taken God at His word instead of mixing erroneous philosophies with it? Even a Bible illiterate such as I knew reincarnation was contradicted in the Bible: “And it is appointed for men to die once, but after this the judgment” (Hebrews 9:27 NKJV). I, and the other person present to hear his confession, sat silent and stunned at his revelation and personal assessment of a “loving God.”

           

            I didn’t think it particularly loving to have a soul inhabit numerous bodies – human or animal; for retribution, reward or refinement, over possibly hundreds or thousands of years – to attempt the impossible: obtaining perfection in earthly life. If that were truly the case, wouldn’t God give us the knowledge and ability to have vivid flashbacks in order to correct our past mistakes, to not repeat them? Why wouldn’t we come with a set of mental instructions on what went wrong in a past life? And which body would I assume on resurrection day anyway? A nice combination of all of them? (Of course, with ultimate enlightenment achievement, no body’s necessary; your “perfect” spirit becomes eternally one with the universe. Game over, no real, eternal life. Fun.) That kind of thinking made God seem indecisive, mean, petulant. Since God is love, I knew He possessed none of those character traits.

           

            If I’m anything, I’m logical. And that thinking – although it might make for an entertaining, non-fiction storyline – is anything but logical. Christians just didn’t believe those things! I just couldn’t believe those things.

           

            Since that time I’ve met more Christians who profess belief in, or who are willing to consider, reincarnation. And they do so not because of validation through Scripture, but because they just “feel” it. They point to entertaining, “convincing” stories they’ve seen on television or have read in magazines or books. Their beliefs rise and fall wholly on emotional experiences and feelings – theirs or others’. How saddened God must be to see people, especially His own, go to the world instead of Him for truth. Why did I, or anyone else, think that the world had better answers for life than the Creator of life? What kind of self-destructive lies had I, and others, bought into?

           

            Yet, at that vulnerable moment, I was desperate to “try” anything.

           

            So … away with rationality and doubt! I’d simply banish them from my psyche. Instead, I tried to paint pretty pictures of a perfect, happy future in my brain. I thought positively, and thought positively…and thought positively some more.

           

            I wore myself out trying to think positively.

           

            God gave me plenty of time to delude myself with positive self-talk.

           

            The problem is, eventually self and prating pep talk will run out.

           

            In whose hands would I place my life then?  

                  

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NEXT WEEK: A two-timing Christian: the self-assessment and search continue…

Thanks for joining me!

Until next week –

Blessings,

Andrea

Footnote: Please don’t misunderstand me; I believe strongly in a positive attitude. A negative disposition and propensity to ‘awfulize’ everything in life devours you, and probably everyone with whom you come in contact. It’s destructive.

           

            However, upbeat attitudes and positive thinking will never win the ultimate battle we all face in this life. We need an unfailing Source of deep, abiding joy; a Source of love that casts out fear and gives a peace that defies understanding – in success and adversity.

           

            That Source is not us! It never has been.  

           

            The million-dollar question is: Do you know what the Source and the ultimate battle are?

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Fighting for My Baby - Will I Give Up?

When I remember You on my bed,

I meditate on You in the night watches.

Psalm 63:6 NKJV

            As promised, Dr. Gordon arrived early Friday morning to check my status. He didn’t appear to have slept any better than I had, although he was cheerful and encouraging, particularly since I hadn’t bled during the night, my vital signs were good, and the baby was doing well. To avoid moving me around, he elected to return Saturday morning to perform an ultrasound to take a look at the placenta’s exact location, confident that his diagnosis – without an ultrasound confirmation – was correct. Until then I’d remain confined to bed, resting primarily on my left side, enjoying a liquid diet.

           

            I spent much of Friday wondering how Parker was enjoying his preschool party and reflecting on what had brought me to this unthinkable position. I also spent too much time and precious energy worrying about the next hour, day, or month.  In between my anxious wondering, I attempted to divert my attention from the negatives and fear by reflecting on the significance of the day – Good Friday – and preparing mentally for my own personal celebration of Christ’s resurrection.

           

            The vacant hours plodded forward, and the television droned on throughout the night for company while the nurses continued to make their timely visits with blood pressure cuffs, thermometers, and fetal monitor. No matter the time of day or night, it thrilled me to hear my baby’s strong, steady heartbeat.

           

            Saturday morning sunlight arrived, as did Dr. Gordon with an ultrasound machine. Within seconds of smearing the contact gel around my abdomen, flipping the switch on and peering carefully at the monitor, he pronounced his diagnosis valid then – after giving me an opportunity to relish another view of my beautiful, precious baby – pointed out the life-threatening problems illuminated on the monitor screen. He was cautiously optimistic, since I’d made it through another night; but the continual fluid loss and spotting concerned him. He chatted amiably for several minutes, reiterated his concerns, prognosis and treatment plan, and ordered more rest – along with the “no moving a muscle” instruction. He punctuated the last order with arched eyebrows and a warning index finger waved my direction. I offered a resigned nod and submissive “okay.” Then he smiled a sympathetic smile, told me he’d be checking on me later in the day, and wheeled the ultrasound machine from the room.

           

            Once again I was left alone to my overactive, fearful mind, an uncertain future looming before me.

           

            A more soothing view might have helped. The large glass window in my room overlooked an inviting, sun-dappled courtyard, but savoring that tranquil sight meant rolling onto my right side. Every once-in-a-while, I’d twist my head and shoulder around to relish a quick peek.  Otherwise, while the hours dragged on with my monotonous, white-walled scenery, I entertained myself by reminiscing about Parker’s past birthdays – a little something to smile about.

           

            Chris and Parker visited Saturday afternoon. Parker arrived with an armload of his birthday gifts to show and entertain me; Chris arrived complaining about his profound fatigue and Parker’s obstinate, unmanageable behavior. Parker did appear agitated, and the longer he stayed, staring wide-eyed at the machines surrounding my bed and the tubes entering and exiting my body, the more his behavior deteriorated. What was to be an encouraging visit dissolved into anger and sharp words. Chris lost his temper with Parker, and I collapsed in tears. How selfish Chris is for complaining about his difficult day and the trouble he’s had with Parker, I thought. Does he think I’m enjoying the bed rest? What does he expect me to say, do? How can he burden me with his frustration and anger when I can barely shoulder my own? Is he unable to see beyond his own needs? His own pain?

           

            I expected Chris to understand my physical and emotional anguish. He could see the tubes and IV lines threaded into my body; he knew I wasn’t free to move around or sit upright. Certainly he could at least appreciate my helplessness and extend me some extra tenderness and compassion.

           

            Yet, he remained unable to comprehend the intensity of my emotional and physical pain; and I failed to consider the depth of his stress, fear and exhaustion. I’d always been a survivor type, and Chris had grown familiar and comfortable with my independent, stoic, competitive nature.

           

            Overnight those personality traits faltered. Now I needed Chris to be strong, understanding and sympathetic; and Parker desperately needed his father’s strength, reassurances and gentle parenting. I could no longer fill in the gaps. I only possessed strength for our baby. Rapidly diminishing strength.

            I’d told Dr. Gordon I was willing to do anything necessary to prolong the pregnancy and maintain the health of my baby. Slinking around my mind, however, was the hope that I wouldn’t be pressed to accomplish that “anything.” Deep in my heart, I wondered if I possessed the stamina or will to endure the effort. Shamefully, I admitted to myself that concern about my own discomfort was rapidly overtaking my desire to persevere.

           

            From the pregnancy’s onset, I struggled to visualize the end: a healthy baby bundled contentedly in my arms. Why did the feeling of an unfinished end – an ugly, gaping void – keep nagging at my conscience? I repeatedly tried to dismiss it, but now it intensified again.

           

            Nonsense, I berated myself after Chris and Parker left. We’re going to make it through this ordeal. I’ll be tough, and God will certainly reward me with a miracle!

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NEXT WEEK: Recognizing the protective hand of God, battling myself and my former medical group, and the dangerous pitfalls of relying on positive thinking.

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

*name changed to protect privacy

            

A Parched and Weary Soul

O God, thou art my God, I

seek you,

my soul thirsts for you,

as in a dry and weary land

where there is no water.

Psalm 63:1 (NRSV)

            One week earlier my doctor had confidently pronounced that there was “no problem” with my pregnancy. Now I lay in that dark, lonesome hospital room, on Good Friday, mentally replaying the previous five months of turmoil, physical pain and struggle, wrestling with the reality that I did, indeed, have a placenta previa – a life-threatening pregnancy complication.

            My worst fears had materialized.

           

            Why did this happen to me? Why did God let this happen to me? Anger, fear and depression threatened to sever my psyche into unidentifiable fragments.  My soul did thirst for God, in a weary, parched land. David’s Psalm described my soul's spiritual condition perfectly.

           

            Unknowingly, recklessly, unnecessarily, I’d been allowing myself to live in the wilderness for years.

           

            My dilemma – being such a casual Christian – was that I couldn’t have intentionally located that passage in the Bible, or others that might sustain me. I knew only a few popular verses; and I felt foolish perusing the standard Twenty-third Psalm, although I did read it once for good measure. Mostly, I simply stared at my Bible lying on my food cart, (I insisted that Chris bring it when he came for his first visit on Friday), and occasionally reached out to touch its cover and ruffle its pages. Sometimes I held it tightly to my breast. When I feel stronger, I might have the energy to open it up and concentrate on its words.

           

            Who was I kidding, except myself? Given the opportunity, I’d expend my energy on other activities.

           

            I had one foot in the grave and the other balanced on a spiritual banana peel, oblivious to my precarious position. Yet something deep within me needed to have that little black Book present; I frantically hoped it would draw God nearer to me. Surely if I have my Bible near, He won’t forget me!

           

            My talisman for troubled times.

           

            I knew I couldn’t expect a cram course in Christian theology, but a couple of uplifting spiritual words would have been welcome. Everyone seemed preoccupied with the weekend’s upcoming Easter celebration. No one – not even a hospital chaplain – came to hold my hand and pray.

           

            The little Black award Bible I received in elementary school remained closed and clutched in my hand, while I searched the ceiling of my hospital room for answers.

            Would I find God in this place...?

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NEXT WEEK: More lonely, anxious days and nights; I honestly confront my feelings about the pregnancy; and my husband starts to succumb to the stress…

            I want to thank you for joining me, and I hope all of you have had a great start to this New Year!!

            Until then!

Blessings,

Andrea

If you’d like to start your New Year with some uplifting, entertaining and true short love stories, get ahold of the book, My Love to You Always, published by OakTara Publishers. It’s available in both paperback and e-book through amazon.com!

           

            The book is full of 42 stories of enduring love that will encourage and give you hope. My Love to You Always would make a great gift for someone who questions whether love can last, or even happen in our contemporary world!

From the Back Cover:

           

            When did you fall in love? And when did you know that love would be a lasting one – celebrating life’s joyous moments and walking together, hand-in-hand, through challenging times? Or are you still longing for that person to come into your life, as a side-by-side companion?

           

            Experience “my love to you always” kind of love through 42 of the sweetest, real-life love stories collected from across the globe. They’re guaranteed to make you misty-eyed and renew your faith in the power of enduring love.

           

           

            Yes, I have a story in this anthology, on page 41! It’s titled, “Broken Hearts, Redeemed” and is the short story of how Chris and I met and fell in love. It’s nothing you’ve read in my blog, so you’ll enjoy a new story, plus 41 others!      

             

            

A Hemorrhaging Placenta Previa: Fighting for Survival

           Arrival at the hospital was humiliating. In spite of the early morning hour, several people stood outside the emergency room, and gaped at me and whispered to each other as the paramedics wheeled me through the doors. Shielding my eyes with my arm to block out their curious gazes, I extinguished a desire to scream at them: How can you gawk at me like that? Can’t you understand the danger my baby faces? I was fighting to hang onto two lives, riddled with a sense of hopelessness and reeling from a sense of powerless threading through my mind and body.

           

            I’d always taken great pride in my ability to control my emotions. Years of athletic competition conditioned me to keep my emotions in check and my body in control. That body had incurred serious skeletal fractures and numerous soft tissue injuries during my eleven years as a competitive gymnast. My first coach was a flat-topped former Marine who tolerated little or no emotional displays. Emotional displays brought swift, physical discipline. I was a hardened survivor of stressful situations and squashing tears.

           

            In this environment – under these circumstances – my highly trained self-control teetered at its breaking point. Problems like this happened to others, not to me. Barely able to communicate with the medical team, I balanced precipitously on the edge of my composure limits. Now I was obligated to place my broken body and unborn baby’s life in someone else’s hands. My spiritual and physical health and my baby’s life were in the hands of God, and the attending physician He selected for me. But was I willing to give them over completely to Him?

           

            Unfortunately, I didn’t abdicate. After so many years of indoctrination in the art of doing mental and physical battle with my body – without much prayer – I didn’t know how to surrender.

           

            Soon I was relocated to a small, private room for evaluation. The emergency physician repeatedly ran in, peppered me with questions, and then disappeared to discuss my answers with the on-call obstetrician communicating with her by car phone. Then she’d return to explain the situation to me. While she shuttled to and from my room, a nurse kept me alert by threading more tubes into my body and treating me to graphic details of his motorcycle accident that planted him in an emergency room bed. I was grateful for the company, distraction, and sympathetic ear. Here was someone who understood the helpless feeling that arises from being on the vulnerable end of an examining table.  

           

            But the admitting clerk wasn’t compassionate. She blew into the room, barraged me with barely audible questions and presented forms I couldn’t sit up or control the pen or paper to sign. Her smiling insensitivity annoyed me, but I dutifully read, responded and scratched out a signature.

            

            Suddenly I heard Chris’s voice outside the room, and with a titanic sigh of relief, I relaxed. He cautiously entered the small room, a mixed look of shock and fear wrinkling his face. My sleepy toddler eyed me questionably, then grinned and enthusiastically belted out a, “Hi, Mommy!”

           

            Oh, how I ached to hold my son and reassure him that all would be well, but I couldn’t explain reality to him. I simply locked eyes with him and returned his smile. He and Chris’s physical presence was more than adequate to calm a frightened, weak woman.

           

            The staff secured admitting tags around my wrists and arranged to relocate me to the obstetrics and gynecology unit for examination by the on-call obstetrician when he arrived. First, my bed’s side rail needed adjusting before I could be moved, so Chris and a nurse tried wrestling it into position. When the aged nurse doubled over to do single-handed combat with the stubborn rail, alarmed grimaces passed between Chris and me. If they can’t set a bed rail, how can they save my baby? I wondered.

           

            A man wearing green scrubs and brown penny loafers padded abruptly toward us then immediately and authoritatively relayed directions to the nurse. Without a hello, hi, or introduction he started talking to us. That was it. My frustration level spiked, driving me to prop myself on my elbows and look him squarely in the face. “So, who are you anyway?” I demanded.

           

            “Oh, I’m Dr. Gordon,” he responded, smiling matter-of-factly.*

           

            “Oh, you’re the one they’ve been talking to on the phone about me.”

           

            “Yes," he nodded.

           

            I wanted him to talk to me straight. “I’m a certified athletic trainer, Dr. Gordon. I’ve worked in orthopedics for years, and I’m going to be honest with you. I have no patience for egotistical doctors.” I locked mildly squinted eyes with him as I spoke.

           

            A grin spread across his face as he nodded. “Okay, good. I won’t sugarcoat anything.” With barely a discernible breath, he launched into his professional assessment of my condition and his treatment plans. He was honest, blunt, and direct, respectful of my ability to absorb difficult information and understand the gravity of the situation, with its potential consequences for me, and for my unborn child. Instantly, we secured a respectful rapport with one another. I knew instinctively I could trust him.

           

            He was convinced I had a hemorrhaging placenta previa and explained that one of my arteries had ruptured when the cervix started stretching, as it did that night. My red blood count level was dangerously low, but I had stopped bleeding profusely – a good sign. The IVs would help bring the red blood cell levels to normal. He wanted to do all he could to avoid a blood transfusion, even though my blood count was low enough to warrant one.

            

            He didn’t want me sitting up or moving a muscle, and he wanted to arrange a transfer to Palomar Medical Center in Escondido, where I’d stay for the duration of my pregnancy – only after I stabilized under his care and was deemed transferrable. He explained the baby’s inability to survive outside my womb at this gestational age, due to inadequate lung and organ development. “If you were further along – or if you can make it another three weeks – we might have a reasonable chance of securing a happy ending,” he stated bluntly.

           

            “At this moment my biggest concern is your survival," he said.

            That's when I allowed the full force of the situation to hit me: This isn't just about my baby dying; this is about fighting to keep me alive. 

           

            For an hour-and-a-half, my glassy-eyed husband sat slack-jawed and dazed in the corner of the room, holding Parker, while Dr. Gordon and I discussed the treatment plan. Dr. Gordon closed the conversation by decreeing that I should get some rest and be moved to a private room in the obstetrics and gynecology unit. When he briefly left the room to make these arrangements, Chris scurried to the side of my bed. “Wow, what do you think of him?” he gushed.

           

            “He’s cocky and self-assured.” I slumped back on the pillow and sighed.

           

            “Yeah,...I like him!” Chris responded, a smile illuminating his weary face.

           

            Dr. Gordon said he’d handled ninety-eight previa cases during his practice, most to successful delivery. Perhaps this little hospital possessed some qualified personnel, and God – in His mercy – had dropped me into the hands of one of them.

           

            Dr. Gordon returned, escorted me to my new room and helped transfer and position me as comfortably as possible among the IV lines and tubes. He patted my shoulder and repeated the relax-and-sleep order, but three IVs, inserted tubes and an inverted body position of fifteen degrees didn’t afford much comfort or relaxation ability.

           

            The nurses left the room, and Chris prepared to return home. Dr. Gordon's eyes softened as he gently urged me, again, to get some sleep, reassuring us that he’d spend the night just down the hall in the doctor’s lounge. Fearful of being left alone, I talked nervously and animatedly while they prepared to leave. Being alone meant being left to my thoughts; thoughts overtaxed with fear, questions and doubts. I wanted to avoid thinking and feeling. I craved the comfort of human companionship, even silent human companionship.

           

            Thankfully the burning hot flashes that started immediately upon my arrival from the magnesium sulfate dripping through the IV began to wane. Gratefully, I no longer needed a cold, wet towel on my head and chest to abate the sensation of being burned alive from the inside out, or the plastic kidney-shaped container supplied for the nausea side effects.          

           

            Chris and Parker kissed me goodbye, and Dr. Gordon said good night. The overhead lights were extinguished as the door closed silently behind them, and I lay amidst the choking stillness of the room. Maybe I can rest, I thought. I closed my eyes, adjusted my punctured, distended frame and tried to ignore the persistent pain from that poorly placed IV in my elbow. 

            While the nurses arrived at consistent intervals throughout the night to take my vitals, I questioned how long I could cope. Was I even willing to cope? 

            Where is God when I need Him so much? I wondered. He must be here; I haven’t lost the baby and the bleeding has slowed. Life hasn’t always been perfect, but things usually work out well for Chris and me. This will work out too; it’s just an impasse in our lives that we’ll reminisce about as a close call. I’ll beat the odds and go home soon to complete my pregnancy in comfort.

           

            Didn’t God appreciate and reward hard-working, determined people? I’d always been taught that He did. Contemplating that thought, I determined to approach my dilemma as a challenge, a competition. After all, I was familiar with the discipline of competition.

           

            I had trained for it most of my life.

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Next Week: The agony of silence and hanging in limbo…

Thanks for joining me. Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea

*Name change to protect privacy