Merton suffers an appendicitis . . .
Since I still had some money coming to me from the University on my “Grant-in-Aid” I signed up for two courses in the spring. One of them was a seminar on St. Thomas, with Dan Walsh, which ended up with two of us sitting and reading the De Ente et Essentia with Dan in his room, in a house run by an old lady who had made a kind of career for herself by harboring the New York Giants under her roof in the baseball season.
While I was still wondering whether I could afford to go to Mexico or only to Cuba, Lent came in sight, and so I put it off until after Lent. And then, one day, when I was working in the library, I suddenly began to get pains in my stomach, and to feel weak and sick. I put away my books, and went to see a doctor, who put me on a table, and poked at my stomach and said, without hesitation:
“Yes, you’ve got it.”
“Appendicitis?”
“Yes. You’d better have that thing out.”
“Right away?”
“Well, you might as well. What’s the use of waiting? You would only get into trouble with it.”
And immediately he called up the hospital.
I walked down the brownstone stairs of the doctor’s house, thinking that it would be nice, in the hospital, with nuns to look after me: but at the same time I was already having visions of mishaps, fatal accidents, slips of the knife that would land me in the grave.... I made a lot of prayers to Our Lady of Lourdes and went home to Perry Street to get a toothbrush and a copy of Dante’s Paradiso.
And so I started back uptown. In the Fourteenth Street subway station there was a drunk. And he was really drunk. He was lying prostrate in the middle of the turnstiles, in everybody’s way. Several people pushed him and told him to get up and get out of there, but he could not even get himself up on his feet.
I thought to myself: “If I try to lift him out of there, my appendix will burst, and I too will be lying there in the turnstiles along with him.” With my nervousness tempered by a nice warm feeling of smugness and self-complacency, I took the drunk by the shoulders and laboriously hauled him backwards out of the turnstiles and propped him up against the wall. He groaned feebly in protest.
Then, mentally congratulating myself for my great solicitude and charity towards drunks, I entered the turnstile and went down to take the train to the hospital on Washington Heights. As I looked back, over my shoulder, from the bottom of the stairs, I could see the drunk slowly and painfully crawling back towards the turnstile, where he once again flung himself down, prostrate, across the opening, and blocked the passage as he had done before.
It was night when I got out of the station uptown, and started to climb scores of monumental steps to the top of the bluff where St. Elizabeth’s Hospital was. Ice was shining in the branches of the trees, and here and there bright icicles would break off and fall and shatter in the street. I climbed the steps of the hospital, and entered the clean shiny hall and saw a crucifix and a Franciscan nun, all in white, and a statue of the Sacred Heart.
I was very sick when I came out of the ether, and I filled myself full of swords by taking a clandestine drink of water before I should have done so. But one of the nuns who was on night duty brought me a glass of what tasted like, and turned out to be, anisette. It braced me up considerably. After that, when I could eat again, I began to sit up and read Dante in bed, and the rest of the ten days were indeed a paradise.
Ten days of quiet, in bed, reading. Sounds like paradise to me, as well. Too bad I've already had my appendix removed. I could use a ten-day break from life.
I come to you at the end of a very long day at the end of a very long week. I've written quite a few blog posts in the last few weeks about happiness and worry. It seems as if, every morning, I put on a pair of shoes. One of those shoes has happiness written across its sole. The other shoe, sadness. And I walk around with both of these emotions guiding my steps all day. I have to be careful which foot I lead with in any situation.
Unfortunately, I have been leading a lot with worry. Some people are left-handed or right-handed. I am worry-footed. I step into a room kicking, treading fear and doubt like deep water. It's something that I've been doing for so long that I can't imagine my life without that kind of struggle. If I suddenly found both of my shoes labeled "happiness," I'd probably go looking for another pair. You see, happiness and I haven't really been on speaking terms for quite a while.
Now, I've heard that happiness is a choice. No matter what the situation, I can choose to be happy or sad or worried. It's all about attitude. I once taught a Sunday school class using a textbook that was titled something like Attitude Is Your Paintbrush. Not to belabor a terrible metaphor, but the main idea of the text was that a situation is neither happy or sad, worrisome or ecstatic. Life is neutral. It's the human element that transforms an experience into a Disney World Vacation or a trip to the dentist.
I'm not sure I buy into that idea anymore. I used to. However, it's pretty difficult to tell someone whose father has just died, "Buck up. You don't have to be sad. It's all a matter of choice." Look at a person whose spouse is cheating on him and say, "Look at the bright side." Or how about a parent whose child has just tested positive for COVID, "You know, you don't have to be so negative."
Sometimes, sorrow is an appropriate response. And grief. Even anger. Yes, you read that correctly. I am saying that it is okay to get pissed every once in a while. Because some experiences call for it. The Book of Psalms are full of moments of contention and anger: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Sound familiar? That's Psalm 22:1. "O Lord, why do you cast my soul away? Why do you hide your face from me?" Psalm 88:14.
Yes, God gave us happiness. He also gave us anger and sadness. And he's okay with us feeling them. Because he knows a few things about disappointment and grief. After all, he watched his only child die a really horrible death. So, he understands the emotions of a grieving father. God watched his children in Israel make golden idols and worship them, and God got mightily pissed. He was going to kill them all, until Moses talked him out of it.
It's alright to feel the entire palette of emotions, from joy to desolation. God expects it, welcomes it. Jesus whipped people in the temple with his belt. When he was dying on the cross, he echoed the psalmist, saying, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" That's anger, disappointment, fear, isolation.
Tonight, I'm feeling a lot of those crucifixion emotions. Having a hard time shaking them off. I don't understand what God is doing in my life. What his plan is. Yet, I also know that God is with me. Again, from the psalmist: "The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore." Sort of like when my son refuses to do his homework or screams at me to get out of his room. I'm still going to love him, keep him safe. It's what all good parents do, even when their kids are being shitheads.
Saint Marty embraces anger and disappointment tonight. Because, eventually, they will lead him back to God. That's the miracle.
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