Every now and then, I have need of a visit to the hospital to shore up from this crazy lupus that challenges me. In the course of my many visits, word got out that I was a jazz-singing, foul-mouthed pastor of a Christian church. And before I could snap, I had a whole new congregation made up of the sick, the dying, the pissed off, the too-old-to-care and the staff who cares for them.
It was almost six weeks ago that I was pulled aside by a nurse. "Paul has asked to meet you. He just wants to say hi, I think. You smiled at him in the hallway the other day and he's not talked about anything else since." So she led me to room 1317 and pushed open the heavy hospital door slowly, using her body to move it quietly and reverently like a temple door. That should've been the first clue something magical was about to happen.
Paul was reclining half upright on the bed with his eyes closed, a well-built man with a head full of curly white hair. An open book rested pages down against his chest. He had the worn, creased look of a dying man. And he is. Paul has brain cancer.
One gentle touch on the shoulder and he opened his eyes and stared at me for what turned into an uncomfortable amount of time. He finally spoke with a voice that had the sparkle of what must have once been youthful vigor. He wanted to meet me, he said, because when he saw me in the hallway that day, he was sure that he'd seen a ghost. Or that the cancer had finally hit that part of his brain that kept him rooted in reality.