When the Homily is about Immunology

Crazy

Such is the diagnosis offered to me for my malady from a number of friends…I suspect many others would also interpret my symptoms in a similar fashion were they a bit more forward with what they are likely more willing to say amidst colleagues behind closed doors. Physicians who wish to tone down the rotten core of their horrific prognosis.

I understand, truly I do and I am not wholly willing to start my grieving process with denial. I start, rather, with acceptance.

So what does it mean to accept your diagnosis of insanity? Are there medications that will make me love suburbia more? Therapy that will help me to realize that the woman I see in her robe, outside her apartments, walking her dog along the concrete and motor vehicle river in downtown Seattle a mere block and a half from her work isn’t at all crazy? A spiritual method perhaps that will assist me to love being surrounded by towering conifers (as opposed to McMansions)less? I suppose there may be a drug that will cause me to despise the notion of being far more dependent myself (and family) and my land? Group therapy might perhaps enlighten me to understand the insignificance of being able to take long walks in the woods while never leaving my own property? Maybe Paxil will cause me to realize that the one hour commute I currently have to live 15 miles from downtown in suburbia isn’t worth trading for the two hour commute I will have in order to live in the country?

I doubt it. But I accept the diagnosis, happily. Sometimes, insanity is quite relative.