Judas Korver is known as 'Jesus Freak'. He's been called this throughout his time in school because he claimed he could see and hear Jesus Christ, but no one else could. Judas wants to put that all behind him and move on with his senior year of high...
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When I realized I might not be real, I fell unconscious at North Pines Psychiatric Hospital in Denver, Colorado, where they were going to deliver enormous amounts of electricity to my brain to give me seizures. With my consent, of course. This isn't the nineteen fifties. Electro Convulsive Therapy, or ECT, has come a long way. I just hope it's come far enough to help me.
The one thing I'll miss the most is the anesthesia. Yes, they don't do this to me while I'm conscious. I'm a loser; I've never done any hard drugs besides being a chain smoker, so I enjoyed a couple of milligrams of Propofol before I fell into nothingness. Later, I'd wake up high as a kite with sticky hair, stuffing dry, crunchy cookies in my face.
Ordinary people don't get ECT. You have to mentally have something wrong with you for people to recommend it. In my case, I have a whole list of ABCs of things I've been diagnosed with mentally. I haven't had an easy life. And I wouldn't be here if I didn't have Him.
To get it out of the way, I believe in God. But I don't just believe in him; I know he's real. I believe one hundred and ten percent in his existence. I've never doubted for a second that he isn't real. Even the most devout of believers doubt God, but me? Not at all. And it's straightforward why.
I can see and hear God.
"How you feeling, Judas?"
The nurse asking the question enters my peripheral, and I look into his steel blue eyes.
I start convulsing and flailing my arms around, "I'm seizing!" I cry out.
The nurse chuckles, "Good to know they haven't fried your sense of humor. Let's get you into a wheelchair."
He pushes a wheelchair to the side of the bed. The anesthesia hasn't worn off completely yet, so I'm still zooted.
Crawling into the chair with the nurse's help, he wheels me to the other side of the room.
"Macaroni and cheese again?" he asked.
"Yes, please," I beg, "Fasting has burnt a hole in my stomach."
He puts the back of the chair up against the wall, and I watch as he sticks some frozen macaroni and cheese into a microwave and presses some beeping buttons. When it begins to cook, he slides a little table before me, then turns around and walks away.
Over the intensive part of ECT, I've tried to learn every nurse and doctor's name. I like names. I will always remember a name. Names are important—when we're serious about who to call our children. I still have characters trapped in dungeons in old D and D campaigns with names like 'Bluto Mind Pretzel' and 'Fartrell Cruggins.' I'm mentioning this because this is the only nurse I haven't gotten the name of.
