A night of disturbed sleep, bladder irritated more than usual due to the meds. I wonder if it's a by product of the blood clot dispersal process? The kidneys filter from the blood substances that don't belong. Maybe the bladder is letting me know they're working. I've also been drinking more water to help the gut absorb the meds I've taken, with inevitable consequences.
I got up while 'Thought for the Day' was being broadcast and busied myself with getting ready to leave the house after breakfast to ensure I arrived at St Catherine's early to celebrate the Eucharist for the first time since the stroke. When I woke up in the night I didn't feel anxious about returning to the altar to take the service. My night time thoughts were of gratitude for being able to celebrate and give God thanks for the ministry of the congregation to me in the eighteen weeks since that moment the stroke occurred during Mass on Holy Cross Day.
My head was clear when I woke up, though I didn't escape the mild ache and light-headed sensation that usually follows taking medication. It's a matter of slowly making the effort to keep going. I just wanted to give thanks for being held in the care, kindness and prayer of the worshipping community and its pastors. And what better way to do this than by presiding at the Eucharist. It was ike getting back on a bike or joining in a circle dance you know. The body remembers the moves and you're carried forward by the liturgy despite strange sensations which suggest an out-of-the-body experience. In reality, it's the opposite - an experience of being in the body of worshippers, the Body of Christ.
Only four of us regulars were together. Clive, Paul, Sheila and me. I had prepared a homily to read to avoid going off piste, but didn't think to prepare intercessions, which I usually pray ad extempore. Though I remembered all the topics it's customary to pray for, when it came to praying for the Archbishop of Canterbury taking the Oath of Allegiance before the King in St Paul's Cathedral this morning, I couldn't recall her name.
I wasn't aware of making any mistakes in conducting the service, and invoked the Trinity at the beginning and the final blessing in Welsh as other clergy do in the Parish team. Five months without standing at the altar in prayer could have triggered an emotional reaction, but it didn't. Neither joy nor relief, nor sadness at loss of commitment to a regular role in the prayer life of the Parish. But come to think of it, I'm still contributing Morning Prayer to the Parish WhatsApp thread weekly, as I did first thing today. Celebrating my return to the other side of the altar at this stage in my stroke recovery is nothing more than what it should be - meet, right, a bounden duty to give God thanks and praise.
I was bending over to clear up a mess I made after supper and a nosebleed started, which scared me, given the catastrophic outcome of the one I had due to clot dispersal meds after the stroke. Fortunately the leak was small and didn't last long, perhaps because my blood pressure is not as persistently high as it was back then. It shows how careful I must continue to be when bending down or putting myself under pressure with long spells of head work, writing or editing. It's an ominous reminder of how vulnerable I am now.
Rather than making the slideshow for next week's prayer video this evening, I went back to reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's novel El Amor en los Tiempos de Colera for the first time since my stroke. It's a relief to find that I've retained much of the Spanish I learned, and can read and still make sense of the text. I was using Google's dictionary app for words I didn't know back then. Some are from Latin American vocabulary as opposed to Castilian Spanish. I certainly have memory lapses, but if I take time to recall the words, especially names do return eventually. Sometimes it takes weeks. Yesterday I was wondering if one of my Swiss chaplaincy in Lausanne colleagues was still alive. Palestinian American, a decorated Vietnam War military chaplain. I couldn't get beyond his first name Samir last night, but his surname popped into my mind this morning. Samir Habiby is still alive, aged ninety. He told me once that he rescued an injured colleague, was awarded a Purple Heart, and charged with disobeying orders to hunker down during a firefight. What a larger than life character! We last met in Jerusalem when I was on terminal leave from Geneva in 2000, just after his retirement. It's strange being able to remember so much about him, and then taking half a day to remember his name.
Celebrating the Eucharist this morning was a significant occasion in stroke recovery. Not because I didn't make a mess of it, or needed help to get through after falling apart emotionally, but fulfilment in offering the sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving for God's healing grace and the fellowship of the Body of Christ in sustaining me and teaching me during this critical period of my life.
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