Monday night I got home from the hospital after being there since Tuesday the 5th of March. The pneumonia I have been battling since January had gotten so bad that I now had to be slammed dunked into a bed and hooked up to an IV and otherwise poked and prodded until I could get well enough to come home.
My body had not been satisfied with having one bacterial infection; without my permission it had grown ANOTHER one. As a result, my iron levels had hit the skids and I was faced with having to get that fixed or get a blood transfusion.
In other words, I had a fun week.
The hospital chaplain was a lovely man but I think he was a little sad that I thanked him for praying with me but I need a priest. A CATHOLIC priest. It is okay if the man was Byzantine instead of Latin or even Greek Orthodox (though they don't like us Catholics much). I needed a man of God that practices a Sacramental Liturgical Life, along with all the other prayers from my Protestant, Buddhist, Muslim, Evangelical, Druid or otherwise connected-to-God-types. I only reject offers to send me 'good ju ju' because I never know what that means or whether or not I need a Tupperware container for whatever it is they are sending me. I would rather have cookies.
Father Eddie came that night. I was given the Anointing of the Sick. He heard my confession and I received Our Lord in the Eucharist. My healing began right then.
It has been a tough week. I have had to defend my lifestyle to Case Managers and Doctors and Nurses. The medical care I received was excellent and I am so grateful. I am very aware that I could be a 68 woman living in a makeshift tent down by the Stanislaus River dying of bacterial pneumonia. The fact that I have medical insurance is a result of me sacrificing a lot - I did not buy some stuff so I could have other stuff - and I am grateful to the financially sound Italian Mother that raised me.
However, the staff - especially the Case Managers (there were three) - did NOT like that I live alone, in the company of two Scottish Terriers. I was threatened three times with being sent to a nursing home because I do not live with anyone. The fourth time it was brought up, I told the woman that she needed to cross that option off her list. It is not going to happen. I will NOT go to a nursing home. I kept my voice low but firm. I did not cry even though I wanted to do so. I did not tell her to go jump in the lake because I did not want to have to go to Confession again.
I have a village. It is not a village that is conventional by any means. It is made up of ex-criminals, wackos, professionals who are well educated and people who can barely read or write. It is a group that might be covered in tattoos AND wear business suits every single day to their high powered jobs. It is people who had to get felonies cleared from their records so they can go to Canada to visit a relative or get an entry-level job. It is people who never miss Sunday Mass and others who would no sooner put a foot inside a church of any kind than shoot themselves in the hand.
My village shows up. My dogs are walked, my fridge is full, I am driven to appointments, my calls are taken in the middle of the night, and my house and laundry is done.
Some of these villagers I share blood with, others I do not. However, we all have the same DNA - which means we are family. The DNA won't show up on an Ancestry.com site. It comes out in our actions, our words and how we view our duty to each other.
I live alone with two Scottish Terriers. I am better off here than anywhere else. And while I am grateful for the medical care I received from the fine, FINE people at the hospital I am even more grateful for the love and care I have received from the village I live in.
My vow is simple: when it is my turn to show up for one of the villagers in need, I will. That's what we do.
Thank you, God, for my life today exactly as it is.....boy am I blessed. AMEN!
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