Cyst: (n) a closed sac formed within the body tissues containing fluid or pus
What is truly magnificent about the human body is its ability to not only perform necessary and intricate functions, but also to warn us of pending difficulty by sending off signals that are nearly impossible to misinterpret.
It’s like a sense of dread.
I’ve had this happen a few times in my life.
Once I was stung by a jellyfish down in Guaymas, Mexico, on the ocean, and my whole network of nerves and cells sounded a signal to my brain:
“This is serious shit.”
Now, I’ve had times when I believed I was in serious trouble, and my mind decided to imitate the warning message, but by morning I usually found out it was just a big bag of gas.
About fifteen years ago, I got a cyst.
I did not know it was a cyst. It was located in a place where the sun doesn’t shine, and visitation was problematic.
I immediately knew it was serious but went through four or five days of denial. I was convinced I could weather the discomfort, the soreness and the swelling. I even went outside and tried to “walk it off.” Yes, I walked about a mile, as fast as I could, until my body circulated so much blood flow that I convinced myself the pain was gone and I was all well.
But about thirty minutes later, I was not only engulfed in discomfort, but suspected I had made my situation worse.
I finally broke down and went to the doctor. He was unimpressed. He was convinced I had some sort of cellulitis. He was one of those medical professionals who thinks that all illness befalls patients because of their laziness, diet or lack of hygiene.
So the only treatment he offered was to place a heating pad under my backside near my ever-increasing soreness.
Much to the surprise of the doctors and nurses, about an hour later, my cyst burst and gave birth to a mess.
Suddenly, the diagnosis changed.
Because it was an unknown wound with unclear determinations, my room was quarantined, and nurses had to come in dressed like Muslim women going to Ramadan.
Twenty-four hours later they operated on me. I was warned that if the cyst had spread deeper into my body tissues, they might have to cut out parts of my bowels and even some other fond portions of my manly being.
This was unacceptable to me.
But blessed as I occasionally am, I came out of the operation minus my cysts (turned out there were two of them) and with all my vitals intact.
If you’re looking for a guideline for health, realize that how you feel tells you much more than how you look, or sometimes even more than what a medical professional might presume.
Listen to those voices.
If you’re really in trouble, there are little “town criers” inside you that start screaming, “All is not well! All is not well!”