Happiness is an Inside Job
Posted by Colleen Duggan in Family on Friday, April 30, 2010 6:00 AM
When my son, Patrick, was two years old, his doctors prescribed a cat scan of his body to determine the presence of tumors. My husband, trying to curtail our growing medical bills, was forced to work, leaving me to take my little guy to the procedure by myself.
On testing day, I was met by a peppy but aggressive nurse. Ushering us into the preparatory room, she handed me two 16-ounce bottles of banana flavored sludge and instructed me to get Patrick to drink it. The smell of the artificially concocted beverage practically bowled me over.
I am supposed to have him swallow this gross stuff in ten minutes or less? I wondered to myself. Did she know he has a severe case of ‘failure to thrive’ and the only things he is interested in ingesting are cows’ milk and Eggo waffles? Did she know I don’t want to watch as my sick child has tubes shoved down his throat and machines light up his small body?
As I began the arduous task of “motivating” him to drain the plastic containers of barium, the nurse popped in and out of the room to assess our progress. “Has he finished it yet, Mrs. Duggan?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “I’m trying.”
“He must drink it quickly for the test to work.”
A minute later, a gruff doctor in a white coat appeared. “We need you to sign a release form saying you understand the potential danger of these tests,” he informed me. “Patrick could aspirate on the table and die. The benefits, of course, of the test outweigh the dangers but it’s important you understand.”
Blinking back tears, I signed the waiver.
Sure, it’s okay, I shot back bitterly in my thoughts. He can choke on your table and die. No problem. I’ll get him to swallow this junk so you can determine if he’s got tumors. Happy to let you have a look.
Still, I prodded Patrick to continue drinking.
“Patrick, you have to keep drinking this.”
“No more, Mama. I don’t want no more.”
“I know, it doesn’t taste good. But you have to do it.”
Grinning at me, he slurped some of the awful gunk.
“That’s a good boy,” I coaxed.
“I no like it, Mama.”
“I know Patrick, me neither. Could you do it for me?”
Grinning again, he sucked on the straw and then pushed my hand away.
“No more.”
I began to panic. There was a good bit left and I had run out of “inspiration” from our overstuffed hospital bag. Shamelessly, I did what any self-respecting parent would do — I bribed him.
“Patrick, if you drink all of this for me, I’m going to buy you a big bag of lollipops.”
More smiles and more slurps.
I chocked back tears and silently prayed. I’m miserable, Lord. This whole situation is awful. I hate it.
As I groaned interiorly, my precious boy interrupted my thoughts.
“I happy, Momma,” he said joyfully.
I stopped in my wretchedness. He’s happy? How can he be happy? We’re in this awful room, surrounded by less than courteous hospital personnel! He’s sick—really sick—and he’s happy? How?
Then it came to me: “If he’s happy, maybe you should be too.”
Patrick patted my cheek and again said, “I happy, Mama.”
James 1:2 reminds us “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds.” While intellectually, I can appreciate the concept of suffering for Christ, when the cross threatens me with it’s weight, I balk under the pressure. I whine. I stomp my feet. I even argue with God. I wish I allowed that moment in the hospital to change my attitude. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Happiness in that instant did not seem impossible for me.
But Patrick’s words served as a reminder then and they definitely serve as a reminder to me today. His contentment in a seemingly terrible experience made me more aware of the choice I have to make when faced with obstacles — I can chose to be miserable or I can look for joy. I can focus on the dark, wooden, cross or I can pray to see a glimpse of the empty tomb. No matter what the situation, no matter how awful the outcome, I can always adjust my attitude — even a little — to find goodness.
I can also remember I am never alone. Just as I sat with Patrick in that depressing hospital room that morning, God the Father sits right by me. He holds my hand, pats my cheek, and wipes my mouth when I’m forced to drink the bitter sludge life sometimes offers. As Patrick drank the cup for me, I can do the same for God, my benevolent Father.
And maybe I can even say, “I’m happy, Daddy. I’m happy.”
—Colleen Duggan is the proud Mom of Patrick, whose health problems drastically improved when he was placed on a gluten/casein/soy free diet. Despite other small setbacks from a genetic disease called Neurofibromatosis, he teaches her daily about embracing life with great joy.
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