Approximately 8:30 am, August 9, 2018:
Without conscience thought, like a rural zombie in denim shorts and a Tractor Supply cap, I instinctively grabbed onto the wooden slats in front of me. I think I remember my knuckles being white.
When I decided to raise 120 chickens and sell their eggs, the Farmer installed little doors to the back of the coop so I could just open them from the outside and swipe the eggs from under the nestling happy hens.
That day the hatch doors were my life support.
It still amazes me that I did not go into shock and fall in the dirt. Maybe it was the grit that had formed and accumulated in my blood under too many blazing, hot suns or too many cold, blustery winters. Maybe it was my pig-headedness.
Maybe it was the shear grace of God in the face of my stubbornness.
At first, I did not know what had happened because I was so focused on the suffering and on attempting to stay vertical. After the initial throbbing began to subside a bit, I looked around.
My vision was blurred, but I could still see him, standing there all pompous and proud by his brood. He had never prior to this moment given me any indication to steer clear, nonetheless; I had forgone by own farming advice:
Never turn your back on a rooster.
No, ma'am.
Blood flowed out of four puncture holes in the side of my knee. It trickling down my leg and soaked my cotton white sock crimson red. I untied the shirt around my waist and used it to stop the bleeding. I felt like a cowboy in one of the Farmer's silly western shows. Fight or flight, and my farm had taught me to fight, I was still standing.
"You didn't bring me down, you fire-breathing, pyscho, cock- a- maniac."
At the time I had an ATV, and I was determined to hop or crawl over to it, and drive back up to the house.
It was a week day, and when I hobbled into the back door, the Farmer was working at his computer, in deep concentration. He didn't even look up.
"I need you to do me a favor," I told him.
"What, Babe? I'm really busy here with problems."
Still not even glancing over to me.
"A rooster got me."
He immediately jumped up causing his laptop and papers to slide off the couch.
"Where's my gun?"
"I thought you were busy."
No, I did not go to the doctor. I'm a tough old bird myself. I was up to date on my tetanus vaccine. Ibuprofen took care of the pain, for the most part, and after about two weeks, I was sleeping soundly again.
However, I noticed a small knot had begun to form in the area of the injury. After four months it was the size of a baseball, so I thought I had better get it checked out even though it wasn't causing any further pain or symptoms.
My PCP didn't have an appointment available the day I called, so I saw his PA. He took the cyst quite seriously and sent me first for an x-ray and then to an orthopedic specialist.
As I recounted the dramatic event to several different staff members and then the specialist himself, all seemed completely baffled. Apparently no one at the clinic had ever encountered this type of injury before. Perhaps I would be in the medical journals.
Of course x-rays do not show soft tissue, so I was sent for further testing. Now back at the orthopedic office, with my results in hand, they revealed no further insights into the mystery of the ugly tumor that graced the side of my knee. I learned from the nurses that knee cysts typically form on the back of the knee, not the side.
"Well," the doctor finally said, after some consulting with colleagues, and after another thorough examination of my leg and observation of my walking pattern, and after I retold the story yet again to several nurses, lab technicians, receptionists, and doctors, all curious to see the woman with this strange injury, "Let's see what this bird put inside of your knee."
"Why don't you charge admission?" I thought.
Feeling thoroughly embarrassed, humiliated, and stupid as I stretched back on the examination table in a pair of paper shorts, I assured the doctor as strongly as I had that old rooster that I wasn't worried, that I was a resilient farm girl.
I told him that I had been head-butted by rams and goat bucks, that I could walk three Great Pyrenees at once, and that I had even lost a finger, preserved it on ice, and had it reattached by a surgeon. I told him boldly that I did not fall to the ground after the attack, that I was still standing. That nasty, old fowl didn't make me cry.
He listened as intently as possible while filling six vials of reddish fluid through a clear, plastic tube from my knee. After all the liquid was drained, the knot still remained. I thought it might be swelling, but it was not swelling. It was the knot.
After the lab analyzed the contents, I would come back for another visit, the doctor informed me. I was released and stood in line behind several patients at the check-out desk. I pulled the reading glasses out of my purse and glanced over my paperwork. There were no boxes checked - understandably.
Inside a small square space at the bottom right, these words were handwritten: "Struck by a chicken."
I looked up. I could feel my face redden. "Struck by a chicken?" Seriously? Why didn't they just write, "slapped by a ladybug," or "horsewhipped by a moth?" I've got a diagnoses for your little box. How about this one: "Savagely attacked by a homicidal rooster with all of the blunt force of a Louisville Slugger and lived to tell about it?"
As if it wasn't embarrassing enough to lie on my hip in a pair of paper shorts while everyone on staff took a look see at the woman having her knee drained of God knows what. You know, the one that was "struck by a chicken." I was so indignant.
"Pride comes before the fall."
That Bible verse popped instantly into my mind. Yes, but that was just it - I made sure that I didn't fall. In fact, holding on for dear life, I had refused to fall. I was standing as tall as that prideful, old rooster. Perhaps more, because I was still alive.
Never mind.
Pride always wins that fight, causing us one way or another to fall off of our high horses in spite of how tightly we grip the reigns. I might have refused to land in the dirt that morning, but I fell alright, fell onto a hard, examination table, on my hip in a pair of paper shorts with a grotesque knot protruding from my knee, for all to gape at and wonder.
The rooster might not have caused the fall, but vanity and pride certainly brought me down into the soil of humility which is right where I needed to be. I have always battled a hefty amount of insecurity, and so I sometimes use the weapon of pride to convince myself and show others that I'm worthy. I use pride to demonstrate that I'm strong and still standing, when God's love for me alone is my worth, and his grace is the ONLY reason I'm standing.
We can hold on for dear life, with steely, white knuckles, all day long, but eventually, one way or another, we're going down. In God's kingdom there are so many paradoxes, and the first one is this: if you want to come in, well, the way up is down. And that flight pattern continues throughout the duration of the journey, through our transformation process into the image of Jesus. Pride is an enemy we will battle for the rest of our lives to some degree. The Apostle Paul did as well, and was given a thorn to keep it in check. ( 2 Corinthians 12 )
Never turn your back on pride. Never think it isn't aggressive. Never think you can tame the beast.
When the results were in, no infections, bacteria, crystals, or poisons were found in the fluid. It was determined to be a ganglion cyst. After the accident occurred, my body seemed to have formed a protective shield around the vulnerable knee, protecting it from further injury or contamination. That seemed to be the only explanation the staff could come up with. And it was good enough for me.
I patted the ugly, old knot, full of blue veins and hard tissue. "Thanks for looking out for me, I'm certain you were just doing what God created you to do." And that purpose was more than protecting my patella. It caused me to take a hard look at the root of some deep, sinful issues still lingering in my life.
Many times we have no idea why we are suffering, or maybe we think we know. It reminds me of Piper's quote: "God is always doing 10,000 things in your life, and you might be aware of three of them."
Take my rooster attack for instance:
Was it just to serve me up with a much needed plate full of humble pie?
I was at the coop early that morning because my friend's daughter and two young granddaughters were coming to visit, and I wanted to toss out some fresh bedding so they could gather eggs, not stepping in any chicken manure around the hen house. Kids love to collect eggs!
Had I decided not to go up there beforehand, the rooster could have very well attacked one of those baby girls, but I was able to bear the brunt. And so whenever I looked at that ugly knot on my knee, whenever I would look at myself in the full length mirror before going out into public and would see that gross thing clinging to the side of my leg, it would remind me that I may have saved one of their lives. A very small price I was more than happy to pay.
A hideous knot suddenly transformed into a thing of beauty.
I am reminded of the ugly rugged cross, a horrific form of ancient, barbaric execution. And yet, I wear a small, white-gold one around my neck. At times, I clutch it between my fingers. Why? Because it saved my life.
One morning last summer ( 2021 ), I got out of bed as usual. As I waited for the coffee to brew, I engaged in my stretching routine, a habit I was forced to adopt in my middle age years. When I bent over to touch my toes, I noticed the ugly knot was gone. I couldn't believe my eyes. It just disappeared overnight without a trace, like it had never been there, no pain, no fluid, no nothing. I rubbed my hand all over my knee, the one that contained the ugly growth that several doctors had told me would more than likely not go away without surgery. Only it had. It was gone.
Maybe it had completed its mission.
I had no idea.
I just smiled.
Everyone seems to have a rooster story.
Now you know mine. 🐓
