“For your hidden blessings, and for all you have in store for us . . . ”
fragment of a prayer of thanksgiving
Finding a spot in the parking deck at the hospital takes longer than getting an EKG does. (The technician was unable to explain why it’s an EKG when there’s no k in electrocardiogram.) Not willing to waste 40 miles of gasoline and time, I headed over to see “my nurses,” who took care of me during chemo.
Perhaps you’ve seen that Sally Field movie Soapdish, in which she plays an actress no longer as popular as she once had been. When her character is depressed, her friend takes her to a mall and stages an “aren’t you ----?” The character is then mobbed and her spirits lift. The closest I get to that kind of celebrity is going to the gynecology/oncology office. I’m a wonder—a woman who hasn’t recurred in four years, who isn’t back in treatment. The nurses fuss over me and compliment me (I think it’s mostly because I have hair and some color in my cheeks). I got hugs and kisses and encouragement about the surgery next week.
More blessings: the downtown farmers’ market was open and had fresh spinach and Yukon gold potatoes. I decided to blow off more time and to reward myself for being very good at the EKG/blood draw/urine sample session. I took back roads home, checking on the corn, much of which will be “knee-high by the Fourth of July” despite the late planting. I got to see a white-tailed deer wandering in the corn, and what may have been the largest farm vehicle I’ve ever beheld hogging the road.
The twists and turns of back roads slowed me down enough to notice two small white dogs in a yard and a robin bathing in a puddle. And yes, I stopped for ice cream at a soft-serve place, and detoured a block to drive one of my favorite streets, listening to Beethoven’s Egmont Overture and to Renee Fleming singing Mozart.
It’s true: I’m behind on my project, and if I took seriously my last rant about not having time for medical procedures, I’d have come straight home and gotten to work. And missed the hidden blessings.