I cannot stand those GPS systems with their ceaseless commentary on my driving. One of the increasingly appreciated advantages of being divorced is that no one complains about my driving. No one presses an invisible brake when I am slow to do the same. No one comments on my preference for a less well traveled route. No one exclaims when I choose to gun my little car and overtake another because its driver ticked me off.
When I travel with my sister Kathy she likes the instructions, the reassurance, the computer co-pilot. I think she would admit that my sense of direction is a little better than hers. As a result, the GPS system’s announcement that it is “recalculating” feels more like an expression of patience than the criticism I perceive it to be.
Today I finally went for the four month follow-up on my first thorough gynecological exam after hysterectomy, radiation, and chemotherapy. It has been twenty months since surgery.
I got up at 5 a.m. and left the house before 6 a.m. for my 8 a.m. appointment. I could not take it for granted that there would be a parking space at the hospital. This week I have taught five classes. I graded piles of papers. I reviewed resumes and spoke with students searching for jobs. I gave references for jobs and admission to the bar. I wrote recommendation letters. I spoke with attorneys for a prior client about an old matter. I was exhausted this morning, so exhausted that I climbed in the shower before I had bothered to turn on any lights.
I was lucky enough never to have acne, but this past week I have enough blemishes to warn passersby of impending doom. I am red! My joints ache. My blood pressure crept up. My tinnitus has been distracting when I want to empty my mind and concentrate on slow and steady breathing.
I got in the car and drove before I could focus on anything other than the need to get going. When I arrived at the hospital I was in time to get one of the last spaces. It was light out by then and I had to slouch in my seat because everyone who saw me tapped his or her horn to see if I was leaving.
There was no sense in getting out before 7 a.m. That’s when the elevators on the first floor open. I was afraid I would fall asleep so tried reading John Grisham’s The Racketeer, but it has been difficult for me to read fiction lately. I am going through a stage when the only things I feel are real.
When I entered the building it was like going back to your hometown after a long trip. I found everything old felt new. A police officer arriving late nearly mowed me over in the hall. The elevator lobby was under construction and I felt like the place was foreign rather than familiar. I rode the elevator to the second floor in the company of a red-dressed bird. This woman wore the tightest, brightest red blouse and capri pants. Over this she wore a pristinely white jacket. Atop her head she wore a curly black wig that cascaded in all directions. Wrapped around her head and across her forehead was a black and white polka-dotted scarf. The ends trailed down one side like she was singing back-up for the Jackson Five way back when. Beside her was a woman in a maxi dress with alternating horizontal stripes of orange and tan. The pumps matched. I kept wondering why I did not receive the memo because the colors were even more eye-popping than the women’s physical attributes. They were attention-getters, too.
In my navy blue shirt, navy blue pants, and navy blue slip-on shoes I felt invisible. I wanted to be invisible. I longed to be someplace else and to have more important things to do, but nothing was more pressing than this appointment.
Of course, I was the first patient present. The receptionist called me to the desk then told me to sit and wait because I was more than an hour early. It was after 7 a.m. and my appointment was at 8 a.m., but there was no point in arguing. She called me five minutes later when there was still no one there.
A nurse came out and brought me back to be weighed and have my blood pressure checked. One was down and the other was up. I explained that I was suffering from some “white jacket syndrome.” I learned that the physician’s assistant who last examined me was the only person present. I knew what this meant and tried not to panic.
I was shown to a room and sat for almost another hour before the P.A. came in.
I was the one who had to do some recalculating today. The exam still hurt, but my anxiety level was much lower. For one thing, as she took notes I had my clothes on. Last time I was led naked through the hallways twice and felt very vulnerable even before the P.A. decided to take my history while I sat half naked (the half that sat on the table was covered).
There was less info to share. The time went by faster. The P.A. could not predict anything without test results, but she let me know that she saw nothing that raised her concern. I hope that this is progress and that some of my fears will be eased when I return to see the P.A. in October.
I ended up driving out to my mom’s place and we spent the afternoon together. We took a ride to the Queen of Heaven cemetery in Hillside, Illinois. Back in the early 1990’s there was a local man (Joseph) who claimed to see the Virgin Mary there after he first saw her in Megjugorje. http://www.medjugorjeusa.org/; http://www.medjugorje.org. He visited the cemetery because he was directed to a cross near a three-trunked tree. http://www.catholicrevelations.org/PR/joseph%20reinholtz.htm. When my dad was alive, he took me and my mom there to see what was happening. In those days, Joseph would come and pray and see and speak with Mary while others crowded around him saying the rosary. People took interesting photos and rosaries turned gold.
One of my mom’s friends had a plain rosary turn gold. I have visited the location a number of times, including after my dad died. On the Christmas after my dad died, I took some Polaroid pictures of the plain wooden cross. The dark wood cross glowed gold on an overcast day while rain fell on me. I took the photos while I kneeled at the foot of the cross. Was it the flash bulb? Why was the effect not repeated in each photo taken from the same place at the same day and time?
I still have one of those photos and gave one to a former coworker who was quite devoutly religious. She also was dying at the time and said the photo gave her great comfort. I will try to find the photo album and scan a few of the remaining photos for this posting later. There are some others that make it appear that a door opened in the sky. I think the sun reflected off of the sides of the camera’s aperture. Nevertheless, they are cool to look at.
At any rate, the scene has changed since Joseph died. The cross was moved several years ago to an empty area of the cemetery. A parking lot was installed. The cross was set in the center of a blacktop area that people could not trample. No large group was gathered. A lone man walked the perimeter lost in prayer. Someone created a little shrine for a statue of Mary. The toes of Jesus’s feet have been touched so many times that the stain and sealer have worn away. Bare, white, and deteriorated wood is exposed. A couple people have left items. We said a prayer before leaving.
For my mom it was a let down. She was hoping to feel that energy that we last felt from the crowd when we visited there. It would have been a connection with my dad, whose birthday just passed and who we will remember this Sunday on Father’s Day.
But I had the opposite reaction. I put my hand on the cross and thanked God and Mary for helping me through the last two years of trials and treatments. I realize that others have experienced far worse than I have and want to keep this in perspective. But there were times when all I had to keep me going were faith, family, and friends. All I feel were gifts that helped me endure. And I felt as I touched that cross that a burden of fear and sorrow lifted from my shoulders.
I found myself recalculating.