I woke up on Sunday morning with my heart going pitter pat, pitter pat rapidly. I knew I wasn’t in love. I’d been married too long for that. I was scheduled to serve as a lay Eucharistic minister at church that day, so I decided I’d just overcome my weakness and forge ahead. All I had to do was read a little scripture and assist the priest with communion. How hard could that be?

As I sang my way down the aisle, I felt warmer and warmer. I’m past middle age so I couldn’t blame it on hormones. Pretty soon my white robe was beginning to make me feel like a stick of butter in its waxed paper wrapper sitting on a sunny windowsill.

I survived the opening prayer and read my scripture perfectly. I didn’t miss a word. Fortunately there were no Hebrew or Greek names to pronounce. I read James 5:13-15 that said if you were happy you should sing and praise God and if you were sick you should go to the elders and let them pray over you.

After that I felt worse. I made a quick visit to the ladies’ room while the priest made announcements and welcomed visitors. Soon we moved into the communion section of the service and I moved to the altar. As the priest prayed, I bowed my head. In fact, I bowed my head on the altar. I was beginning to feel faint.
When I looked up, the server across the altar was staring at me intently. She’ll never be a poker player. Her face showed shock and dread. She beckoned to the deacon who turned to me. All I could mutter was “I am sick”.

She immediately whisked me down the aisle, yanked my robe off and shoved me toward the satin sofa in the church narthex. In an instant a young doctor threw sofa cushions under my head and feet and started feeling for my pulse. My dentist who looks like a Barbie doll was fanning me and applying cold compresses to my forehead.

From the corner of my eye, I could see a large man pulling a walkie-talkie out of his pocket and giving instructions. I couldn’t believe he didn’t have a cell phone. I was even more shocked to see that my husband had waked up and was standing over me.

In the twinkling of an eye, the guys from the Fire Department arrived. “We’ll do anything to get you to come to church,” I said. By the time they realized I was joking, the E.M.S. women arrived complete with gurney. 

Still lying on the satin sofa which was meant to be used by bridal parties not a sick old lady, I received an e.k.g., blood sugar test and readings of my pulse, temperature and blood pressure. 

Everything came out normal but they wanted me to go to the hospital anyway. I refused. 

I needed rest, goodness knows, a hospital is no place for a tired person to get any rest. Besides, I knew I wasn’t strong enough to make it through the E.R. waiting room. You have to be tough to make it through Emergency Room admittance proceedings. I didn’t want to catch any hospital germs either. I promised on my life, maybe on the 200 year old Bible in the case next to my head, that I would call my doctor the next day.

Later that afternoon the phone rang, I answered it. I had to answer it because my husband was sleeping; he’d missed his Sunday morning nap. It was my priest, checking up on me. He wanted to make sure I called my doctor the next day.

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “The triage nurse and my P.A.’s nurse were both in the congregation this morning. I’ll be dead if I don’t call.”

“By the way,” I added. “I’m never ever going to read that passage about having the elders pray over you and anoint you when you’re sick again.” 
 
Copyright 2009 Brenda C. Birmelin

Brenda is a native Tar Heel and a card-carrying member of the UDC.  She has written humor pieces for a local tourist publication including one called, You Might Be a Coaster If...   Brenda was involved in a  partnership-published book called, If Laughter's the Best Medicine, I Can't Be Sick.  She also has been published in Women's Glibber  and The Best Contemporary Women's Humor.