The Devil Goes To Heaven

Genesis 2:18

This book is for you. I hope it reaches you in time.

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 1950s. 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 have something mentally 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 God.

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 110 percent in his existence. I've never doubted for a second that he is real. Even the most devout of believers doubt God, but me? Not at all. And it's straightforward as to why.

I can see and hear God.

"How you feeling, Judas?"

The nurse asking the question enters my periphery, 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. I crawl into the chair with the nurse's help, and he wheels me to the other side of the room.

"Macaroni and cheese again?" he asks.

"Yes, please," I say. "Fasting has burned 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's and doctor's name. I like names. I will always remember a name. Names are important—when we're serious about what to call our children. I still have characters trapped in dungeons in old D & D campaigns with names like Bluto Mind Pretzel and Fartrell Cruggins. I'm mentioning this because this is the only nurse whose name I haven't gotten.

"Hey, wait up! What's your name?" I ask.

He turns around and smiles. "John," he answers.

"John," I say on a breath. "That's a good name. I love his gospel."

"Yeah, my parents were religious. I never really caught on, though."

"Why's that?"

"Just never made sense to me. I need tangible evidence for that kind of thing."

I think about his answer. When he turns around, I speak up. "What if you could see him?"

"Who? God?"

"Yeah. Or ... like, Jesus. What if you could see him standing in front of you? And what if he told you he believed in you and was there for you?"