Familiar

I leave in another hour for my radiation treatment and a 30 second consultation with the radiologist, “No skin reaction? Great. See you next week.” or "It's just boring now, isn't it." He barely gets in the door. I wonder how a 30 second visit gets billed. Maybe it’s by the word. Fifty bucks a word would be about right. It’s clockwork now, no drama, no fuss. I don’t even have to register at the reception desk. I scan a bar code I’ve been given on a piece of paper, walk on back, change into a gown and sit down. I notice some of us get to stay in street clothes, and some of us have to wear patient uniforms, I mean gowns.  (I wonder if there were any women on the committee that designed them. They are so fashionable. And you have to remember which parts of you are covered and which aren’t, because it’s not obvious.) You don’t really notice the gowns so much when everyone is in uniform, the staff and the patients. But in mixed company, when half of the people in the waiting room look normal and you look like a pale blue blob wearing jeans and boots, you remember. But I am so used to it all now that when I lay under the machine and wait for the familiar series of beeps and buzzes, I almost fall asleep, and when the technicians come back in, I’m disoriented and forget to wait until they lower the bed, and I clunk my head against the machine. They apologize.

How quickly we get used to things. I have trains passing through my backyard every day, and I don’t hear them anymore. I remember when we lived in Ometepec, a group came down from North Carolina to visit us. They slept on the floor of our living room, right next to the street, under openings in the concrete to let in air…as well as the barking of the dogs that protected the street throughout the night. You know how they are. By day the just laze around, but by night the are filled with bravery. Glen couldn’t sleep with all that racket, so he opened the door and threw rocks at the dogs, and off they scurried (don't worry: you don’t have to hit Mexican dogs to get the message across. All you have to do is look like you are picking up a rock and winding up to throw, and that does the trick). But they’d always come back because they were just doing their job, protecting the street at night, and they had nowhere else to go. In the wee hours, Glen gave up and made his peace with the pack of dogs so that both of them could get some rest. We didn’t hear a thing. We were used to the noises of Ometepec.

I’m glad God made us able to get used to things so we can get some rest, but I’m even more glad that in the midst of repetitiveness, he surprises us, thumping us on the head. Today I looked outside, and at first I thought the window was dirty, but then I realized that in the few minutes since I’d last checked, the yard had been covered with mist, and I couldn’t see past the property line. I was encased in white water. This does not happen in Oaxaca City, and I am not used to it. I watch the trees dropping leaves, a steady rain of shimmering gold weaving a variegated rug on the ground. I have not seen this for fifteen years. In the radiation room I meet a new technician: Alexis. And Dianne, whom I’ve seen for three weeks now tells me I’m one of the fortunate ones to get this far in my treatments without redness. Someone else admires my new haircut (!) It’s easy to have a perfect haircut when you start out bald. Everything is so even.

Some things need to be boring and uneventful, like hospital visits and plane rides. I’m glad that in the midst of ordinary days, God sends extraordinary things, like fogs, and nurses who notice haircuts, and friends who sleep on floors. And if the things He makes (nurses, gold-raining trees) have endless ability to surprise and engage us, imagine living with God, Himself, the source of all surprise and personality. No wonder we will not need the sun to vary our days. We will work for an eternity to know God, and He will become Familiar, but we will never get used to Him.