MORE WAITING

Arriving early at Branson Hospital this morning, I was more than ready for yet another CT scan. I had fasted since midnight, had downed a litre of water first thing in the morning and had actually combed my hair…that’s a great thing for someone who has sported the Mats Sundin look for so many months now.

The scan would determine the status of my last tumour, the one that lurks in a place inaccessible to radiation therapy. I haven’t thought much about it since Dr. Goldman brought it to my attention two months ago. I suppose I’ve accepted the fact that the cancer menace may always be with me and I’m resigned to that reality. As my mom often says, “Everybody has to have something.”

As I approached the hospital's waiting room area, I sensed something was amiss. A heavyset man in line in front of me was quite animated as he complained to the intake person about taking a day off for a test that now had to be rescheduled. He also argued about the parking cost that he had incurred for his fruitless visit.

When it was my turn to present my OHIP card, the middle aged receptionist said,
“Sir, the CT scanner just broke down. Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll call you back in a few days with a new appointment.”

In an attempt to restore her faith in humanity, I tried to be pleasant with her. I realize that my test is not urgent but it is frustrating to be delayed like this.

“Why can’t anything be straightforward,” I thought to myself. As I walked back outside into the crisp morning air, I felt that my glass was half empty again and frozen at that. Then I remembered a reading that Terry and I had done the previous day. It is a poem from an unknown author and it really helped put things in perspective. Perhaps it may be of some help to you as well.

Chance has not brought this ill to me;

It’s God’s own hand, so let it be,

For He sees what I cannot see.

There is a purpose for each pain

And He one day will make it plain

That earthly loss is heavenly gain.

Like a piece of tapestry

Viewed from the back appears to be

Only threads tangled hopelessly;

But in the front a picture fair

Rewards the worker for his care,

Proving his skill and patience rare.

You are the Workman, I the frame.

Lord, for the glory of Your Name,

Perfect Your image on the same.