Hither and yon, today...
Adventure #1-- Going to Christ Hospital, for a CT scan, to find out whether I really have a kidney stone or not.
I decided to go really early, in the hope of side-stepping the usual hour-long wait, when I've arrived on time. Plus, my appointment was for 3:00, which would put me back in traffic at the height of school-bus time, my least favorite time in the driving day. I was directed to the CT lab by the front desk clerk, who told me to follow the blue line -- tiles inset into the floor as a guide. They have a green one too, and a yellow one, I think.
I was doing great for maybe three minutes, until the blue line split, without any signage about which direction I should go. I asked a woman who probably wishes she had a dollar for every time someone asked her the same question -- Where does the blue line really go? -- but even her instructions weren't much help, because further up the hall, the blue line branched out at least three more times, and the security guard, who my guide told me I could use as a point of reference, was walking down the hall toward me (and how could I know if he was 'that' guard, or just another one?), so I kept following the blue line, until it led me to the exit at the other side of the building. I retraced my steps, discovered that the pacing security guard was, indeed, my point of reference, and he pointed me to the room I wanted -- a room, by the way, nowhere near any line of any color.
I supposed that this was progress of a sort.
The room was fairly empty -- just two other people sitting there, in chairs with grey padded seats. Up on the wall, was a counter like they use in delis and butcher shops, showing that #37 was next. I took a number, and was considerably less than thrilled to discover that the number on my little pink slip was... #66. Where, I wondered, were all the other people? I sat out of sight of the TV, and got out the book I've been forcing myself to finish. Expecting, at any moment, a steam of people to come in, with little pink slips in their hands. 39. 42. 51. 58, 59, 60...
A chubby young man came in a few minutes later, but without a pink tag in his hand, and then from one of the little interior rooms emerged a harried-looking, middle-aged man with a hospital ID tag around his neck. The two men had a very loud conversation about some medical records -- shouting as though there was a deep canyon at least a quarter of a mile wide between them. Then the harried man asked a seated woman, who was there before me, (perhaps she was #53? It was too much to hope she'd be #65...) why she was waiting, and she said she was waiting for someone else who was already being helped. When the harried man -- he reminded me of a big, flustered chicken, the kind that would have brown and white feathers -- asked the chubby guy what he wanted now, Mr. Chubby said he had to wait for some paperwork. Like he said.
Then chubby guy turned to me. "You''re here, aren't you?" he asked. Trying to keep any sarcasm out of my voice, I said that I seemed to be. My being there, however, mean that, in spite of the 37 on the bright red LED sign, in spite of my pink paper tag with 66 printed on it, and in spite of the 30 missing patients, I was next. I asked about the gaping discrepancy between 37 and 66, and the harried man said, 'Oh that sign is broke.' When I suggested that maybe they should either fix it or turn it off, I think he shed some feathers.
The CT scan itself -- the reason I was there in the first place -- was quick and simple and weird. I felt like I was in a Star Trek movie, but without the proper costume. The big plastic and metal donut examined me, and talked to me, asking me to hold my breath, and then telling me I could breathe again. It was oddly uneventful, for something that was examining my innards. I thanked the staff for their help, wished them a happy Valentine's day, and went all the way back to the front desk, had my parking ticket validated, and was delighted to find that I didn't have to pay anything. More money for cheeseburgers! And even better, I was home in a jiffy, with nary a school bus in sight.
The CT results should be available Friday. And either it is a kidney stone, lurking around in my bladder until it decides to make the next leg of its journey, or it's degenerative arthritis, accompanied by referred pain. Oh joy. Why couldn't they discover that I've been carrying a box of chocolates around on my back, and suggest a simple, delicious remedy?
Adventure #2 -- Ash Wednesday, and all that it entails.
Well, strange as it may seem, I decided to attend whatever service I could, locally, where there would be the imposition of ashes. Impatient as I am about what I think must be a majority of the Episcopal canon, there are still some basic behavior-based events that I find deeply meaningful, and this year, it seems especially appropriate to acknowledge, in a graphic, helpless way, the inevitability of every individual's exit from this life. I went, because three people I loved in different ways won't see Easter this year.
The closest Episcopal church seemed to be the most sensible choice, and there's one just a bit over a mile from here, so that's the one I chose. They were going to have a full Eucharist, with the imposition of ashes in there somewhere, but in spite of the longer service, I went anyway.
The front door was open, but the entryway was dark and a bit treacherous, and the inner door, leading directly into the church, was locked. I recalled, vaguely, that there was another entrance on the other side of the building, and maybe that's the one most people used? It proved to be the case.
I was among the first to arrive, and for a while, I felt like the goat among sheep, as everyone coming in sat on the right side of the aisle, while I was alone on the left. But a handful of latecomers joined me, quieting my slight misgivings about being an outcast.
The service proceeded much as I would have expected, but I couldn't help thinking, as the ritual was unfolding, about the shock I felt, when I happened upon a Joseph Campbell book on myth, and read the story of Osiris and Isis. I remember being quite surprised and upset -- and I was 50 years old at the time! -- at how obvious it was that the story of the Egyptian gods and goddesses predated and perhaps predicted the whole story of Jesus and the resurrection. I felt duped and stupid. How, I wondered, could I swallow, whole, as historic fact, the tale of a carpenter from the Middle East, who happened to be the Son of God, and, at the same time, regard the tales of Osiris' death and dismemberment and rebirth as mere symbology, arising from a primitive need to understand a complex universe? I felt undermined.
And of course, the tales from the Egyptian pantheon aren't the whole story. Dionysus goes through a similar death, dismemberment and rebirth -- and I've often wondered, looking at the seeds you can still find in certain varieties of grapes, if their shape -- like a little penis with a set of testicles -- didn't prompt at least part of this myth? Just as I've often felt that the images of our arising from dust and clay came, themselves, from the way moist clay reacts in the human grasp -- how readily a simple gripping motion can reveal the head of a thigh bone, or how pulling the clay might seem to make an earthy, inanimate rib.
I got ashes smeared on my forehead. I was thinking, as I've mentioned, of John's mother, our friend Doug, and my dear, long time friend John Willard, as I knelt there with these other people, none of whom I know. Maybe that made it better, or truer. This is what a faith can do for me -- provide meaningful rituals, practically subverbal in their simplicity -- sharing a meal; acknowledging the life-giving sacrifices which can never be repaid; being allowed to bear, on my own body, a reminder of my impending death. During the rest of the show, I tend to daydream, and doodle.
Now, I've got to go and try to discover what on earth our red cat, Buster, is crying about. He does this all the time -- it's maddening. His food dish is overflowing, the tap in the upstairs bathroom sink is dripping for him, the litter box is clean, and still he walks around yowling as though he's in the middle of a desert and for weeks, hasn't had anything to eat but sand. He also likes to paw at the glass doors of our clothes closet, usually at 5:30 am. Sometimes I think I should just get him a little custom-fitted concrete suit to wear at night. And maybe a sound-proofed helmet?
What would Jesus do? Or, for that matter, Osiris?
© 2013 Walter Zimmerman
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