Last Sunday ...

The lady who collects me for church is a terrible driver. She drives too fast, brakes too late, and changes lanes with scarcely a glance over her shoulder. It snowed on Saturday night. The roads were slippery Sunday morning. But I had volunteered to be the liturgist. I had to go. Although it was appreciated, the ride to church was nerve-racking. I was relieved when at last we arrived in the parking lot.

The church service was lovely. Two tiny babies were baptised. The front pews were full of proud friends and family – smiling grandparents, young aunts and uncles, and supportive others. I had only to read some announcements and a psalm, the 112^th. Easy, right? But no. I screwed up the psalm. I began to read into the microphone before the choir sang the refrain. Rev. Cathy interrupted me to allow them to sing. But I did not feel the slightest bit of embarrassment. My discomfort had come earlier when I read the announcements.

I told the story of a woman who’d presented us a slideshow a few months ago to demonstrate the work she was doing in Africa. She has recently been diagnosed with IPF. That was a difficult item to read.

“Geri was planning to return to Uganda to continue her work with the children there when she noticed a shortness of breath. She saw her doctor and was subsequently diagnosed with a rare, progressive and fatal lung disease called Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. There is no known cause or cure.”

We later included Geri in our “Prayers of the People.” After the service, a congregant, Dave G. approached me.

“Do you have high blood pressure, Dale?” he asked.

I told him no.

“OK,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s none of my business, I know. But I noticed when you were reading the announcements, your face got really red, like as if your blood pressure went up. You look fine now, though.”

Dave is a great guy, about 70 I guess. He’s recovering from surgery in the treatment of lung cancer. It’s been a long, difficult battle and his cure is still uncertain. I considered telling him about my situation, but people were milling about with coffee and cookies. It didn’t seem like the right time or place.

“Thanks,” I told him. “Blood pressure is not my current concern. I have other issues, Dave. I’ll talk to you another time, ok?”

He squeezed my shoulder.

“No problem, Brother. I’m here if you need to talk.”

So far, only three people at my Windsor church know of my diagnosis. I’ve been intentionally private about it. Here at home, only the minister knows.  And of course Colleen’s mum and dad. I think I’d like to tell more people, but I want to be certain first. Yes, the doctor who diagnosed it seemed certain. I keep replaying his words in my mind. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” Maybe, because my symptoms are so slight, I can live in denial. It’s a comfortable place to be. It allows sleep, and laughter and joy. Am I playing the ostrich? Am I wrong to want to enjoy my Life?

I’ve asked for a second medical opinion. We’re still waiting to hear from the specialist at Toronto General. I guess I’ll wait until he’s examined me before I spread word of my ... condition.

I feel as though I’m in limbo. And I’ve more to say on that subject later.

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