The season of the Church year known as Ordinary Time is when church musicians can take a deep breath and attend to their neglected personal lives. The blessed but musically challenging season of Lent and the Easter Triduum are past, and there is a long stretch of spring and summer to enjoy before the preparations for Advent and Christmas. I was anticipating the less demanding season this year, but recently discovered that this coming Ordinary Time will be rather extra-ordinary for me.

I hurtle through life at top speed; singing, writing and my job at a local hospital occupy most waking moments, and I squeeze in visits with family, friends and the beach when I can. The pace is exhausting yet exhilarating, but little free time means I’ve been neglecting my health. I have come to realize that I am not aging gracefully, but rather am a human embodiment of that boardwalk Steeplechase game: multiple horses (or in my case, body systems) are hurtling, herky-jerky, towards the finish line at varying rates depending upon the reliability of my aim with a water pistol.

A milestone birthday looms: this December I will be turning 600 months old (ok, I’ll wait, but try to do the math without a calculator), and since I have long ago lost the receipt for this body and thus am not eligible for a full refund, I am stuck with this broken-down temple for my soul. Now that I have the luxury of Ordinary Time, I decided the first decaying body parts I would address would be my knees and feet. I mentally erected scaffolding around myself and hung an “Under Construction” sign on my lower extremities.

Two autumns ago while raking leaves, I fell and injured both knees in a particularly inspired display of gracelessness; had I been a contestant on “Dancing with the Stars,” the move would have received pans from the judges and earned me a rapid departure from the show. Over time I have adapted my walk to lessen the pain: right foot points forward, left leg skewed at a 45 degree angle, and that foot rolls sideways to move ahead. (All I need is a bandanna for my head and a parrot for my shoulder and I could land a role in the next Johnny Depp pirate movie.)

The growing discomfort is affecting my role as a cantor: I cannot kneel properly without pain, so I have resorted to the oft-seen but never endorsed “reverent slump,” utilizing both the kneeler and the lip of the pew seat for stability. Hobbling towards the altar to receive Communion or towards the ambo to sing the Responsorial Psalm is laborious as well. It is time for some serious repairs, I decided, and began the medical odyssey towards better health.

Since I had a new medical insurance plan, I needed to find reliable physicians. My Internet research results gave me a list of some doctors so young and inexperienced that I suspected the certificates hanging on their wall were not diplomas from Ivy League universities but instead statements proclaiming their high score in the Nintendo “Wii Hospital” video game. Happily, the same surgical group which had successfully and compassionately treated my son’s torn ACL a few months ago is on my medical plan, so I made an appointment with them.

I entered the familiar office building, noticing a new pile of rubble right across the street where an abandoned car wash had stood. The group’s orthopedist recommended I visit the local hospital (my place of employment) and start a round of X-rays to determine the corrective measures.

I was intimidated the first time I walked into the hospital as a patient; I much prefer a seat behind their intake desk than in their waiting room. But in God’s own, humorous way, he sent me an angel, not bathed in light but clad in blue scrubs, to guide me through the testing. When my name was called, John the X-ray technician broke into a large smile and said, “Oh, you’re the one with the beautiful voice!” and I immediately breathed a sigh of relief. After we spoke the Catholic drill (“Which church? What Mass? Where do you sit?”), he told me he had seen me limping as I cantored and had wondered what was wrong.

“Let’s find out!” I replied, and we headed towards the X-ray machine. Less than an hour and a “see you at church” later, I had been irradiated and held the CD of photographs and the paper reports in my hands.

When I returned to the orthopedist’s office, (a backhoe was busily moving the rubble as I passed) I learned the results: in medical parlance, “internal knee derangement.”

I burst into laughter and told the physician, “Doctor, this is not the first time the word ‘derangement’ has been used when describing me, but it’s usually from the neck up!” He explained that this was another term for arthritis (ah, impending old age), the damage to the knees was moderate, and the pain could be managed with some anti-inflammatory medicine. The problems with my feet were a bit more complex, and he prescribed an MRI to give him a clearer view.

Sigh. Another test.  God knew I might waver if the wait was too long, so once again he intervened. I walked out to my car and called my insurance company for authorization; they rubber stamped it and told me the approved office for MRIs was in the very same office building, even closer to the rubble… and there was an immediate opening.  I walked back across the lot and into the new doctor’s office.

My very first MRI was an enlightening experience. After repeatedly cautioning me not to move and warning me about the noise, the technician gave me a pair of small yellow earplugs (all I needed was a reflective orange vest and I’d be ready for a day as construction worker). Clad only in a gown which resembled a failed entry on “Project Runway,” I slid into the machine as if I was returning to a cold, white, noisy concrete womb.

The machine began its tests with three long deep klaxons like a cruise ship backing away from the port, and the theme to the old show “The Love Boat” ran through my head (sorry, too many quiet Saturday nights at home during college). Multiple loud beeps sounded, so much like my alarm clock rudely awakening me on Sunday morning that I instinctively reached over to slam down my palm and beg for five more minutes of sleep. The technician’s voice permeated the banging, pleading “Please don’t move!” I apologized, impatiently watched the digital meter’s countdown to the end of the test, redressed and left with yet another CD memento of the day.

I was grateful I had reliable medical insurance and a small financial windfall from some well-timed stock option withdrawals (God’s seesaw finance plan surfaces yet again!); the co-pays were manageable but increasingly annoying. To put the amounts in perspective, I drew parallels between them and the cost of some menu items at my favorite Japanese restaurant. With each check I wrote for an X-ray or MRI, I thought, “Rats, that’s one less Rainbow Roll I can order the next time the choir goes out for a sushi dinner!”; after each walk past the rubble on my way to a doctor visit, I internally griped, “There goes an order of seaweed salad and sashimi!”

I nervously awaited the doctor’s interpretation of the MRI CD and stared at the black-and-white photos opening on his computer monitor (note to self: next time request technicians dub in my singing of church hymns over the pictures for future use as résumés.) The surgeon pointed to a prominent hook in one of the photos and told me the reason for my heel pain: calcium spurs, another common sign of impending age.

Spurs? I was shocked: I was no cowboy, and despite Tex Ritter’s song, these bony protrusions did not jingle, jangle, jingle, but instead ached each time I took a step. The doctor told me that the spurs were shredding my Achilles tendon and would have to be removed. He said, “To smooth down your heel and eliminate the bone spur, I’m going to take a saw…” at which point I burst into laughter.

“Now, come on, doctor, that’s not funny,” I protested. “What will you be using: a laser, or a special electric scalpel?” He calmly answered, “No, I’m using a bone saw,” and kept describing the procedure.

A BONE SAW?! My eyes dashed to the calendar on the wall: yes, it was still turned to the year 2010.  Thinking I had hit my head and been magically transported back to a Revolutionary War battlefield, I fully expected his next sentence to be, “…and I’ll give you a whiskey-soaked rag to bite on…” Instead he told me he would remove the tendon, smooth the heel, then re-graft the tendon using bio-absorbable screws. I would be required to use crutches for three weeks and a walking cast for another six.

(I later shared this upcoming procedure with my cousin Rick, looking for a little compassion. But we’re a tough group, we 10 Italian cousins, and rather than cluck sympathetically, Rick’s voice dropped a few octaves as he somberly chanted the introduction to the old “Six Million Dollar Man” series: “We can rebuild her. We have the technology…”)

I trust in God’s love, and I trusted in the surgeon’s skill, but I was still a bit hesitant about the operation when I left the office that day. God had eased the path for me up to now; was it greedy to ask for one more little sign to influence my decision?  Then I realized: each and every time I left that doctor’s office, God had been sending signs that I was in the right place: the friendliness of the medical technicians, the ease of scheduling appointments, even the luck I had finding parking spaces. The final sign took the form of the pile of rubble across the street from the doctor’s office. Once the site of an abandoned car wash, a small placard indicated the plot of land was being transformed into my favorite Oklahoma-based chain restaurant, the first in this county. Subsequent visits to the doctor’s office would take me right past the drive-through window! My decision about the operation was clear: there’s a bone saw in my future.

So, it looks as if I’ll have to slow down, enjoy this extra-ordinary time and once again trust in God’s loving care.

At our last visit, the surgeon concluded his exam with the words, “Get your affairs in order,” and I’m taking his advice. The suggestion covers all three facets of my life: Liturgical Chris (make a good Confession and receive the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick), Secular Chris (clean the house and grocery shop), and Jersey Girl Chris (hit the shore for fudge and taffy, then buy some raised planters for this summer’s tomato and basil garden). I’ve asked my friends to pray for the medical personnel (because, let’s face it, all I’ll do is lay on the table), and I know God, in his great love, will nurture me and let me know I am not alone. 

On June 11, I’ll have his graces and my friends’ prayers to accompany me into the operating room, and a pineapple shake and tater tots from the drive through to greet me when I leave.