November 4
St. Cloud Hospital Chapel, St. Cloud
Concern, pain, fear, anger, thanksgiving. The intense feelings from the congregation in the hospital’s small chapel were palpable in the intimate space. Two rows of short pews led to the altar under the two story ceiling with tall stained glass windows flanking the sides. An octogenarian organist who played from memory while volunteers in red vests ushered, served, and offered communion. The young and vibrant priest punctuated his message with meaningful gestures. If I had watched this Mass without sound, it would have still held meaning.
Nonverbals
Nonverbals had always fascinated me: the slightest narrowing of eyes or pursing of lips might express more information than a well-crafted verbal message. In a few situations. I pulled in every iota of my emotional IQ
Until the physical exam, my annual checkup and “check out this lump” appointment was normal. Though my doctor’s eyes were closed to aid in tissue proprioception, his concern was palpable and filled the exam room. I knew going into the appointment that the odds were 1 in 400 that I would have breast cancer at age 38, but in that moment my fear that I had breast cancer was born.
Briskly but thoroughly, Dr. C explained the next steps to screen for cancer and ordered an ultrasound and mammogram. This mammogram was the only one I would ever have and interestingly was the machine Scott had his only mammogram on too. He had volunteered to help calibrate it when it was new, but his scan was clear while mine showed a concerning lump. Radiology squeezed me into their schedule the next day. The exam room was warm and dark, the technician kind and friendly. The only other ultrasound I had was also in that room; Scott was present as we viewed our baby who was in a position for all to know we would have a boy. The memory made me smile as the technician took images as she worked. She was a ROCORI grad so we talked about school. Her eye contact was strong as she said she wanted the radiologist to take a look. Dr J breezed in, studied the screen then grabbed my hand in his big warm paw, “This is very concerning.” Concerning. I could see it in the wrinkles that appeared around his eyes.
“I’d like to biopsy this right now. Can we work her into my schedule?” Dr J* asked the radiation tech as my concern became white knuckled fear. She shook her head, he was already over-scheduled, the radiologist group only in Paynesville once per week.
After she had scheduled a stereotactic biopsy in St. Cloud, a clinic nurse whose concern was written all over her young face explained she would move heaven and earth to get me in as soon as possible. She had been there, her short hair an indication of how long she had been out of treatment. Indeed, she called me twice to update me after getting the biopsy moved up from Wednesday afternoon to Wednesday morning then Tuesday morning. I appreciated her sense of urgency as sleep was a struggle, but her concern also deepened mine.
Often I observed the best nonverbals in my students. After class, a student would linger behind and express their wishes for me and share a family member’s experience. These were real heart-to-heart moments, especially when the story ended in death. They might suddenly realize it was tough for me to hear and their round eyes and mouths were clear indicators that they just wanted to disappear, but I assured them that I needed to hear all the stories.
Another example came from my own nonverbals. The last day for staff in late May 2018 was held in the secondary school cafeteria. This was a wrap-up for the year including recognition for years of service and I knew I was at 25 years, the only person left from a group of ten hired in 1993. Gosh, I was excited. I waited for my name to be called, popped on a tiara I happened to have with me, then waved like proper British royalty through the crowd to the front to receive a handshake from the interim superintendent whose nonverbal indicated he was a bit frightened by my enthusiasm, then a hug and a paperweight from my principal, whose expression registered that he was used to my antics. I returned to my lunch table with plans for year 30: maybe carried in on a litter like Cleopatra? But I would not get one day past 25 years. Indubitably, my nonverbals when I looked at the years of service paperweight were heavier than the item itself; it was placed far away from sight.
The priest was unbelievably exuberant about delivering the gospel, Romans 11:29-36, and his homily about Jesus instructing the Pharisee not to invite those who will invite him back, but to extend to the poor, crippled, lame, blind.