I am the one percent.
Not in a good way.
Not in the "I just won the Powerball," way.
Not in the "She is definitely good enough to go to the WNBA," way.
Sadly, not even in the, "Yes, I want to sign you to a recording contract. Here, I'd like you to meet Reba. You will be singing a duet with her at the CMA's," kind of way.
I am the one percent of people for whom the pharmaceutical companies have to put the "rare but call your doctor immediately if" list of side effects on that pamphlet when you get your prescriptions. I'm am the one percent of people for whom doctors have to take a class in medical school called, "you will probably never see this, but just in case you ever have a patient named Kristen Escovedo, here is a bunch of weird stuff you will need to know." That title is wordy, I know. The short version is just Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010.
I am that one percent. I'm the girl whose appendicitis didn't show up on three separate CAT scans. Whose surgeon says, "I've seen appendicitis that didn't show up on a CAT scan before, but I've never actually opened someone up, looked at an appendix and thought it was completely healthy, taken it out, and had it show up as appendicitis. That is a first."
He clearly didn't take Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010.
I'm the girl whose ovaries get fused together in the middle of her abdomen after a hysterectomy.
I'm the girl who starts having contractions at 20 weeks for no apparent reason. Goes to the hospital 13 times, and every time has nurses and doctors just cock their head and say, "Umm, I'm not sure what's going on here."
I'm that one percent.
I'm the one percent of people who gets migraines five times a week (which isn't that uncommon) and doesn't respond to any of the migraine medicines (more uncommon). In fact, many of the migraine medicines make my migraines worse (there it is!).
So after eight years of migraines and trying every possible combination of medications that dozens of doctors could possibly conceive of -- after a while, I think they just walk into the sample closet, close their eyes and grab random boxes-- I decided to go a different route -- I'm having surgery.
First thought; I'm having my brain removed. There have been times during a migraine when I considered it, and believe it or not, in several countries they are doing surgeries for migraine relief where doctors remove a nerve in your brain. This gives you some insight to how desperate I am when I'm contemplating flying to Germany to have a nerve taken out of my brain to get a little relief.
But no, this is a sinus surgery. It turns out, as with most things, I am in the small percentage of people whose passageways to the sinuses are virtually non-existent. A CAT scan of my sinuses revealed I have a deviated septum (not unusual). I also have very narrow passageways, (a little more unusual). As I looked at the CAT scan the doctor pointed out these two large "pods" that were blocking about 90% of my already deviated, narrow passageways. I said, "Are those little circle things that are blocking the way bigger on me than they are on normal people?"
To which he replied, "Normal people don't have those."
There it is.
So, I am having surgery to open up the passageways to my sinuses in an effort to, you know, be able to breathe.
The doctor has informed me that this is no silver bullet. It might help my migraines, because it will greatly reduce the constant sinus pressure I feel. Plus, it should help me be able to sleep, since I will be able to breathe for the first time in my life.
But he isn't promising a miracle.
And that is what I've been telling myself since I scheduled the surgery three weeks ago.
Because I am the one percent.
And because I hate surgery.
But then something happened this week. God showed me that I pray too small.
Let me give you an example. For almost a decade, I've been praying (figuratively) for God to make a way for a friend of mine to navigate their way over a mountain. This week, God answered that prayer by picking up the the mountain and moving it.
For the last month I've been praying that God would give Richie and me some direction in a particular situation. I've been trying to be quiet and listen for that still small voice. Yesterday he answered with a bullhorn.
I pray too small.
I forget how big God is.
I forget that he made the world in six days. I forget that the wind and the waves obey his voice. That he holds the very universe in the palm of his hands.
I forget that he can move the mountain.
I forget that he can heal the migraines.
Even for the one percent.