A funny thing happened on my way to the tanning booth....

You know, all on its own, radiation treatment itself is nothing special. They put you on hard, flat bed, wheel you under the machine, line up the laser sights with the tattooed targets, zap you a little on the front, then roll the machine around to your backside to make certain that you are evenly browned on both ends. It's all over in less time than a quick "fake and bake" on your lunch hour. The most annoying part is sitting around in the waiting room waiting your turn and listening to the hospital volunteers make small talk while watching "The Price is Right."

Finally got my first in-patient treatment Tuesday, and was sent home from the hospital later that same afternoon. Wednesday's outpatient appointment went fine as well; had breakfast out beforehand, and then afterwards in the afternoon even did a little grocery shopping and ran a few errands before attending the evening Executive Committee meeting at church.

Thursday, not so good -- excruciating nerve pain again in my left hip, radiating up my spine and down my left leg to my toes, which basically made getting from my bed to the bathroom to the living room couch, back to the bathroom and back into bed again (with the assistance of three grown-up men) a full eight-hour day, and forced me to miss both my morning and my rescheduled evening radiation appointment, and also the welcoming wine & cheese reception for new members I've been looking forward to for weeks.

And I think my poor dad was in even more pain than I was; every time I yelped he reached for the most potent narcotic in the medicine chest, which made for a VERY interesting Thursday night.

My physician tried to tweak my routine pain treatment protocols to solve that problem, but we never did get to a good homeostasis -- and so once again Friday the firefighters are bouncing me down the tight steps of my quaint 19th century walk-up apartment and off to the hospital, where it appears I'm stuck until the lesion on my spine shrinks enough from the radiation that I can withstand the pain well enough to get to those appointments as an outpatient.

So, more frustration: missed the party, won't be able to preach my sermon Sunday (although it's all printed out and in the hands of a very capable reader), plus I'm days behind on my blogging and the cards and letters keep pouring in. And I still think that the best possible thing the Doctor could have prescribed for me on Thursday would have been a Valium for my dad.

But we've talked, and I think he gets it. I know it's hard for him too. One of the most difficult feelings in the world, I think, is that feeling of wanting to be able to do something and realizing you are incapable of doing anything. As a minister, it's a feeling I've wrestled with more times than I can count. But for men like my father, who like to DO, I think it is both extremely unfamiliar and quite uncomfortable.

This whole issue of "boundaries" is a tricky one even when people are feeling good. Suddenly becoming a patient myself has subtly yet profoundly changed the dynamic of my "pastoral" relationship with many of the members of my congregation, in ways that I've sometimes read about, but for the first time am starting to see close up with my own eyes. As a "healthy" pastor, I basically minister as the face of a congregation -- an individual and a person, of course, but more importantly as a persona and a role. I represent the community -- that amalgam of names and faces who share my concern and would all like to be there personally if they could, but who send me in their place to take the lead and provide guidance for everyone. The pastoral relationship is a very one-sided relationship because it's all about giving: not "me" giving to "them," but the members of the community giving THROUGH me to one another.

And then suddenly I become become ill myself and everyone is painfully reminded and aware that I am a real human being again. And of course, the community all wants to give back. Which is great -- except for the radical asymmetry of it all. I LOVE receiving the letters and e-mails of support and encouragement, and the fact that people are signing up in droves to provide me with rides, to shop and cook, to walk my dog...all the little things I am currently incapable of doing for myself, and which my neighbors are easily and cheerfully doing for me.

But what I REALLY need are people who are willing to step up and take over some of my role of being the pastor to OTHERS in the congregation -- to be the reassuring voice "of the community to the community" that this is all a normal part of life, that we will get through this together, and that (like my father) we are all wrestling with personal feelings of our own about what to do and how to react to this situation which truly effects us all.

I think that the rest of the staff in particular could use lots of support and encouragement from the members of the congregation. We are a small staff as it is, and being a player down means that the others all feel that they need to step up and try to fill in, at precisely the moment when the additional demands on getting all of their own work completed are even more pressing because of my absence. The Worship Committee is also doing an excellent job of arranging for Sunday Services through the end of our regular program year, and in such a way that will still allow me to participate from time to time if I'm feeling up to it, but will not depend on me being there at all if I'm not.

The plans for my Installation are also in very able hands; and that other than green-lighting a detail or two here and there, my basic duties that day may well consist of being carried into the meeting house like Cleopatra on a sedan chair, and repeating a few "benevolent dictums" at the end. All while wearing my bright crimson Harvard Robes with complimentary maroon First Parish Church ball cap.

Which brings me to the other interesting aspect of my experience so far. I hope that everyone will keep in mind that this is all still relatively early in the ball game for me: its like the first innings of opening day, with plenty of baseball yet to be played and the entire the season still ahead of us. I understand how tempting it is for people who are a LOT more experienced with these issues in their own lives to want to try to save me some of the agony of traveling that distance myself. But you can't. Your insights are important, your wisdom is comforting, your encouragement gives me support. But as you well know, much of this journey is simply something we each have to do alone. Simply knowing you have been there makes me confident and gives me the courage that I can follow. And that's really all anyone can expect or ask.