Endless Tuesday

We interrupt our regularly scheduled restaurant rant-and-rave in favor of this exciting report from the home front. Please enjoy Friday Letter #92.

Tuesday’s duties

Tuesday of this week was quite a day for yours truly, Mr. Tommy.

It began bright and early across town. At 8:30 a.m., I almost got talked into something I most definitely do not want to do.

That same evening, I participated in a social event that was something I most definitely did not want to do.

The deadly proximity of the two circumstances rocked me, emotionally. I am not usually rock-able. However, the day wasn’t without its rewards; we also had a full and profitable telephone visit with our son Benjamin.

DRE encounter

At the urging of my general practice physician, I kept an appointment with yet another urologist.

My doctor was concerned with ever-increasing “PSA” test numbers. I’m told that means “Prostate Specific Antigen” chemical laboratory test results.

So off I went to the new urologist. This man, like the previous one, was kindly, gentle, experienced, compassionate, obviously well-trained to do his job.

I always thought the acronym “DRE” meant “Director of Religious Education.” It really means “digital rectal exam.” The doc gave me a DRE. He said, “I don’t feel anything wrong – but the PSA numbers are an overriding concern.”

He proceeded to schedule an appointment date for a needle biopsy. The doc had been so persuasive that I was unable, in the examination-room-context, to object or to refuse. I still have the appointment, but the chances are slim I will keep it.

Sparing you the grisly details, I have had for many years a truly firm and clear intuition about this particular diagnostic procedure.

My intuition is that if I permit the test, I will get an infection or a perforated colon or some other injury from which I would be unlikely to recover. I could die.

Surprisingly, the doctor agreed. Should I become the “one in a thousand” or whatever the odds are, I would die a lot sooner from the procedure than from allowing the disease to run its course.

No, I’m not afraid of the pain of the procedure. And no, I didn’t find it reassuring when the anesthesiologist said, “You won’t remember a thing.” I think they want to blot out my memory to make me a poor witness, if I live through the test and have to sue them.

As of today, I’m sticking with my intuition.

Brief digression

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The Seder Meal

You may recall last week’s “Word of the week,” Seder. It comes from Hebrew, Sedher, meaning arrangement, service or lection. In Judaism, it is the feast commemorating the exodus of the Jews from Egypt. It is observed in the home on the eve of the first day of Passover.

My church, St. Peter here in Greeley, produced a Seder Supper re-creation Tuesday evening. Roast lamb. Bitter herbs. Boiled eggs. Matzo (unleavened) bread. Salt water. Wine.

I foolishly allowed my name to be added to The List. Any objection I might have had was swept away in the flush of Event Excitement. There didn’t seem to be a graceful way I could extricate myself. Never backed myself into a corner like that before. At least not at church.

Like so many things dreaded, this wasn’t nearly as bad as I had feared. I love every single person who was in that room that night.

The odor of the meat, however, was overwhelming, cloying, stifling. It wafted through the entire church, upstairs, downstairs, into the restrooms. I like a church that smells like incense. I don’t like a church that smells like cooking sheep meat.

I don’t remember it, but I must have been molested in a church basement as a child, during a potluck supper. Yeah. That was it, I was molested. Sure.

That’s why I dread going anywhere near a church event which involves food – lamb flesh in particular. Molested. Yeah, that was it. Too bad I don’t remember. I should sue. After all, it’s only been 50 years. Yeah. I should sue.

I lived through the Seder. No permanent damage. Next year, I already have a previous engagement. Yeah. That was it, I already had an appointment. That should work.

A culmination

After nine years of praying, dreaming, hoping, planning and working, I have determined to throw in the towel.

I am no longer actively seeking to become a deacon in the Roman Catholic Church.

We came to this, Laura and I, while discussing the issue with our son Ben Tuesday night. The young man kind of backed into the subject, thinking to not hurt his dad’s tender feelings.

Ben compared what I ran up against in the Church to what he encountered during his last few months in the U.S. Navy.

He wanted to become Chief of the Boat. Burning desire. Self confidence. Ambition to make things better. Eyes on the higher pay rate. In the end, the Navy couldn’t afford to promote him. He was too valuable where he was.

That’s what he told me about myself. The Church couldn’t afford to give me up in my present incarnation, which includes a batch of ministries involving the Scriptures, the Eucharist, the elderly, the homebound, the sick.

He was right. I realized while we were speaking with him that I had been butting my head against a Diaconate problem not just because I have a calling.

I was also stopped dead in my tracks by the Big Kahuna down there in Denver. I was primarily campaigning to get past a stiff-necked member of the hierarchy. Getting past him had become more important than becoming a deacon.

The Church, through its representative ensconced high in the John Paul II Center, had denied me even the initial interview with the Diaconate’s Scrutinies and Admissions Committee.

The reason? As a child, I was taken ill with Infantile Paralysis. I had polio, so I obviously couldn’t become a Deacon. This particular Big Kahuna even went so far as to impugn my cognitive abilities – he said in a letter that because I had had polio, I obviously wasn’t smart enough to study Scripture, History, Psychology.

Personally, I think he just took a dislike to me because of my lurching gait. He disliked me in the same way my Dad did; he was never quite able to put his finger on the queasy feeling I gave him.

Perhaps it’s sinful, but I have taken glee in the idea that my application to the Diaconate caused a high official in the hierarchy to be queasy. It was the least I could do.

I wrote to this man several times. Laura and I drove down to Denver to interview with him. He has an office with a plethora of windows, but had a bank of file cabinets blocking the view. How could he get to know me if he couldn’t even see the great outdoors?

He seemed affable enough, but he wasn’t going to budge off his odd, unreasonable posture toward me.

I wasn’t trying to join the Masons or the Elks or the Greeley Country Club. I have no criminal record – not even traffic citations. I have paid my bills, so far. I have an acceptable reputation in my parish. Seems the only thing wrong with me is that I had polio as a child.

It also seemed strange to me that the man took the entire load on himself. Without consultation with his peers, he refused to allow me to interview with the committee. He rejected me all on his own, and there is no format of appeal. My failure to become a deacon is entirely on his conscience, his alone.

No, I am not going to “leave the church.” No I am not going to join radical Catholic fringe groups. Never fear. But I am going to avoid contact where possible with The Hierarchy.

I wonder. Just what made him so afraid of my candidacy? What about me threatened him so? Doesn’t matter, really. Ben was right. I was off-task with my Diaconate campaign.

So now I have to buckle down and accept the fact that I have been rightly dismissed – for the wrong reason.

-0-

Word of the week: Nausea. It comes from the Greek and Latin, nautia, nausia, meaning seasickness. (From nautical, etc.) Nowadays it means a feeling of sickness at the stomach, with an impulse to vomit. It means by extension anything viewed with disgust or loathing.

Which is where the Seder Meal comes in. The sheep meat didn’t cause me to vomit – but that’s only because I didn’t try to eat any of it. I’ve got to swear to dig my heels in earlier another year.

Next week’s Word: Advocate.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comment section below!