Chapter 1: A Son Of Thunder Fights A Bug … And I Am Afraid

Oct 8, 2009 by winjaw

I hate bugs.

I’m not talking about squishy bugs – those I just squish.

I’m talking about medical bugs – the ones that like to kill.

Like the ones attacking a Son of Thunder. Now.

Within the last 48 hours the middle Son – Seth – has gone from feeling rather poorly, to not being able to move his head because his neck is so stiff, to barely being able to move, to being in the hospital.

My warrior, with eight years of victories under his belt, now fights again. But there are no swords, no light sabers, just an IV dripping mixed cocktails of antibiotics into his arm.  A CAT Scan showing something very rare.

This battle is not about outnumbered forces or inferior weapons.  Even though a Mongolian horde may refuse terms of peace and their only intent is to destroy, at least you can see them.

This is a battle where one side is not only unseen, it has no conscious. It has no honor – it can’t. It exists only to destroy.

We at least know the enemy’s intent. It is to slowly strangle the middle Son, to literally prevent him from breathing. To close off his air flow. To kill him.

And this time, I can’t come up from the rear with fresh reinforcements. I can’t hold the flank for him. His fellow warriors, the other two Sons of Thunder, sit on their steeds. These are mighty horses, bred for battle. Steam comes out of their nostrils, they stomp their hoofs, their armor clanks against their sides. And they pull against the reins, wondering why their masters have yet to send the signal.

And the other two Sons wonder as well. They are ready. Let come what comes. They are the Sons of Thunder and a fellow Son is in danger.

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And I am afraid.

And the Little Black Dress is afraid.  Right now she’s sits beside her middle warrior. She is there to guard, to ensure that if the choking starts, an entire hospital staff swarms in.

She is there to pray.  And she has speed dial.

Throughout the day she has done what she always does in times like this. She calls in her own warriors. Prayer warriors. Right now, from Alaska to New York to Georgia, people are praying for our middle warrior. And the remaining Sons now understand the weapons of this battle. They dismount. They pray, as does their father.

This is no longer our battle. Our swords and light sabers have no chance here. Our weapons now are a mighty team of doctors and nurses and the best medicine they know how to use.

Oh, and the God of the universe.

And I like those odds better and better.

Pray hard warriors, pray hard.

Because not today little bug, not today.

(There are a series of posts on this journey, simply use the search function at the upper right and type in Chapter 2, 3, 4, and 5 (two parts)