flavor of Sunday afternoon 24 Jan 2021

Sunday afternoons are not a physical reality anyone else could see, but a sense, a feeling, a Becoming. Ride westward along StAndrewsBay. Press button Open gate Disappear into underground garage. Far less exhausted than the usual Sunday noon, walk into the lobby. 

Elevator door opens into a world as magical as Jack climbing out into a land above the clouds at the top of the Beanstalk. Stride high-rise sidewalk looking out over best childhood memories of growing up in downtown StAndrews with my brother, several steps to 7H door, vanish inside, never to be seen again.

Lose keys, wallet, and the strip of white plastic that conveys holiness (Good morning, Father) and is as identifying as the Bowtie on my last car. A bowl, four to eight oysters, depending on size, probably not a dozen. Only six or ten calories each. I'm not in Colchester or Sydney, and Apalachicola Bay predictably having been mindlessly over harvested dry in my lifetime, so these are my mixture of Gulf Coast oysters from TarponDock and Chesapeake Bay oysters from Sam's. Pepper vinegar and a sprinkle of No Salt but no saltine crackers until after my six-monthly mid-Feb weigh-in at the doctor's office. 

Clean glass, handful of ice cubes and Either one finger of Islay single malt, Or the ever varying concoction of perfect martini: several drops Italian dry vermouth over crisp ice, deliberately grab one or another from half a dozen interesting gins, plus either a potato vodka from Poland or an imperceptible but nevertheless hint of sweet, vodka from Latvia, one or two anchovy-stuffed olives and couple teaspoons of their brine to make it Dirty, cap the glass and shake until it goes opaque white. 

Light or at least fairly sensible Sunday dinner and the High Priestly Nap. My intent afterward was to blog on my sister's birthday (1938, do the math yourself) and commemorate the Tenth Anniversary of, thanks to the lovingkindness of many, my lifesaving day at Cleveland Clinic, 24 Jan 2011. 

Maybe rehearse the day - - arise way predawn for shower with poison soap (warning: do not get it in your mouth, eyes, ears), trolley ride with loved ones blood kin and more, in freezing darkness, from motel to Heart Institute, waiting area, ride in wheelchair, "take off everything but your birthday suit" and lie down on the gurney for prep. Me attempting early morning lightness: Shall I keep my birthday suit on? Humorless order: "Take off everything but your birthday suit".  

"Good morning, sir. Would you like to see a hospital chaplain before your surgery?" No thank you, my priest is here. "!!! aren't you here from Florida?!!" Yes. "You're from Florida and your priest is here?" Yes. 

"I brought oil for anointing." DO IT!! 

Rolled through double doors and beyond into a seemingly far away empty corridor the width of a boulevard with high walls, and immense wide high doors on each side as far as the eye could see. Rolled up close to one of those immense, high, wide, rolling doors, this one outside my own personal OR. My gurney parked against the left wall, my feet covered with freshly warmed blankets, still clutching my little brown bottle of nitroglycerin sublingual pills. Wait. Traffic picks up. Wait. Someone slides open the door of my OR. People in scrubs begin rolling in huge machines. Wait. A medic arrives, introduces himself as my anesthesiologist and gives me something intravenous for relaxation. Seriously, I did not need it, I was nearing the end of my two-to-five months prognosis, and was eager. Wait. Still clutching tiny brown bottle. Wait. Other medics in scrubs. 

Edit: added after this memory was stirred by a note from a Facebook friend. During the hallway journey and pause, not only was I observing what was going on, I also was finalizing my list of dreams that I was planning to enjoy while sedated (no, seriously). I had good memories that I intended to dream about. But as it turned out, I was too deeply anesthetized to dream at all, which I did not realize would be the case! I've read that deep, total sedation is as near to death as humans can get; and that there is always some risk, however slight, that the person will slip on over the line and die. That experience and "epiphany" has made me rethink my theology of death and dying! 

In Time, one in scrubs comes up, greets me kindly, rolls my gurney into the OR and up beside the operating table, removes my blanket and, covering my modesty, asks me to slide over onto it. This is Cleveland, Ohio, Way up north, January winter, and I'm to slide over naked onto a stainless steel table? 

But the table was warm, and there above me was the same intense bright white light of my earliest memory, over the operating table when I was two years old for tonsillectomy, over the operating table when I was twelve years old for appendectomy, now over the operating table when I am seventy-five years old for life or death. Warm. My chief surgeon and his team greet me, I'm given another intraVee, and, assured but still clutching my little brown bottle just in case, am Gone. 

My plan for yesterday, Sunday afternoon, January 24, 2021, was to commemorate that day a decade ago, remember with thanksgiving and love all those who made it possible to get there and back, all those who were there with me, those who named me in prayers, those who wanted to come with me but stayed at home to look after my mother. 

And maybe blog some other things, fears beyond simple apprehension that despite Wednesday, January 20, are not subsiding. But, remembering the tales of American soldiers getting their hair cut by friendly Vietnamese barbers who as VC might cut their throats as they sleep tonight, ho anaginoskown noeito, I'm not saying too much. But am appalled by the incredible blindness. What about epiphany?

What instead then? A movie, on DVD, a film that left me stunned almost as speechless as did The Passion of the Christ years ago. A little boy, the inquisitive curiosity of an innocent or not so innocent child, about himself. But the star: watching the dawning epiphany of another centurion, his face as he realizes What, Who this boy is that he has been ordered to kill. 

The Son of God. Even God Himself. The Young Messiah. The movie overwhelmed me. For me, star of the film was the centurion, whose colleague I keep meeting again years later at Mark 15:39.

T