pray me old

It’s 9:34pm on Sunday and by the time this lands in your inbox I’ll be prepping for a wire to be placed in my right breast. A wire that is supposed to be a marker that says “right here!” A homing beacon. Because the surgeon goes in blind. “It’s just so small that we need help finding it” she says. “We’ll need at least two millimeters of clean margin around it in order to not need to go back in.” Ok then. Go take more than you need. I have spare tissue. Go for it. But once you’re in, don’t get jealous if you come across markings of surgeons past. You’re not my first. You won’t be my last. Other scalpels have been here before, so do what you came to do and do it well. Because there’s more work that will need to be done in the future, and I need to know that you’ll treat this like camping—leave no trace.

It’s 9:38pm on Sunday and by the time you read this I’ll have forgotten about the folks who lingered a little too long to give me side hugs. Acquaintances that want to be considered friends when times get rough. I’m just a tad too prickly for their false sincerity. No, thank you, I do not want to keep you abreast of the situation (pun intended). We’ve never been that close. We have not done the hard work of learning one another for me to fill you in on the details. But then I’m also prickly about those who I would hope would want to draw themselves closer to me, but rather send me thoughts and prayers. Or worse—just thoughts. What should anyone do with anyone else’s thoughts? Send casseroles, bad jokes, promises of free childcare, Marco Polos. Send me a carrier pigeon from your side of the country to mine with a scroll in its mouth that reads “wherever you are, so am I.” Even if you can’t be.

It’s 9:43pm on Sunday and by the time you read this I’ll be a little older and so will you. A new friend asked “How, specifically, can I pray for you?” and I fumbled, trying to find the right words, finally stumbling onto “I just want to be an old woman someday.” And there it was. “I can do that. I can pray you old.” And I think about that every day. And I wonder how long God will answer this friend’s prayer for me. And I wonder if I should have been more specific still, or if the small God I put in a box can possibly expand enough to know (specifically) what I was actually asking for.

It’s 9:46pm on Sunday, Father’s Day, and he sits across from me in the dark with the afghan over his legs, our dog curled up against his thigh. He says nothing, does nothing. He waits. He’s so incredibly good at waiting. And even though today was supposed to be a day honoring him, it ends as he waits on me, hammering out whatever squirrelly thoughts I have (or don’t have). The very essence of patience and kindness. And yeah, long-suffering. Maybe this will be the year we catch a break are words we’d never utter aloud. Life has been rich here in the rain. Richer still standing in it with him.

It’s 9:51pm on Sunday and I have thought countless times about how fucking thirsty I’ll be by the time surgery rolls around at 11:45am tomorrow. “Come hungry” said the medical receptionist. Yeah, yeah, I know—you gotta fast, you can’t drink. No one wants you to aspirate once intubated. Talk about a bummer. You know the risks, sign here. The hospital really should rebrand a bit. “Come thirsty, leave healed!” Now that’s the stuff. Like an evangelical mega-church. Don’t aspirate on your self serve Lord’s supper wafer and grape juice. We’d hate to deal with a lawsuit before you’d had the chance to know the Lawd. Sign (your visitor’s card) here.

It’s 9:55pm on Sunday and I’m thankful for modern medicine and I wonder about it’s limits. I wonder about the billionaires who get rich from the pharmaceutical industry. And yeah, I think folks should be paid for their work, and also, maybe not so much so that they want to keep us coming back for more? This isn’t a shaved ice stand in the middle of the summer. But what do I know. My degree is in the humanities.

It’s 9:59pm on Sunday and I miss my mom. I wish she had known it was ok to take care of herself. That is was ok to say no from time to time. That it was ok to not invite my uncle over for Thanksgiving dinner after what he did to her as a little girl. That it was ok to rest, to ask for help, to cry in the shower. I wish she had listened to her body before it was too late. I wish she had had friends close enough to her to say “let’s go get mimosas and mammograms” when she moved states. I wish I knew if I was going to outlive her 58 years. I miss her and do not want to see her for a good long while. Not yet.

Hey John, keep praying me old. Ya hear me?
Pray me old, with big pink glasses and cheetah caftans. Pray me old with a laugh that will rattle in the memories of generations after me. Pray me old and feisty. Pray me old and sad—so I can sit with those who mourn. Pray me old and joyful, dancing longer than anyone thought I’d be able to. Pray me old and healthy enough to pick up small children for hugs while they whisper in my ear “Can I have one?” so I set them down and pull out the candy I have in my pocket that I’d been saving for them. Yes, that. Pray me into becoming the peppermint grandmother for the church.

It’s 10:06pm on a Sunday night and tomorrow is just another day. It is a beginning and an ending. It is a middle. Yesterday was the solstice. If everything becomes darker outside, let everything inside become brighter. May I continue to make jokes at my own expense.

Lord, give me more Sunday nights.

Amen.