Pilgrim’s Illness
Jim Forest on the Spiritual Journeys of the Sick & the Dying
Any trip, even a small, repeated journey from one prosaic location to another and home again, can become a pilgrimage leading more and more deeply into the kingdom of God. In my own case, the most common of pilgrimages has been going from our house to the local hospital, a five-minute bicycle ride from our front door. I make that small pilgrimage three times a week, normally on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Several years ago, a routine blood test revealed that the creatinine level in my blood was higher than it should be. My kidneys were gradually failing. Sometime in the not-distant future, the doctor said, I would need to use an artificial kidney machine to stay alive.
Dialysis was something I passionately wanted to avoid. For thirty months I faithfully took all the medication my doctor prescribed and changed my diet. I even found a local acupuncturist and spent many hours with needles placed in various areas of my body, from my feet to my ears.
Joy’s Shadow
I often prayed for a miracle, and many prayed for me. For several years I have been on a list of people for whom our parish prays at each and every liturgy. The fact that there has been no miracle is disappointing, and yet I have felt greatly helped by the prayer. I think it was a major factor in my gradually coming to terms with my illness, an inner shift that happened quite slowly.
It may well have been the prayer of others that helped me realize I was on a pilgrimage. I’m embarrassed to say that for the better part of three years, even while writing a book on pilgrimage, such a thought never crossed my mind.
In that period of regular hospital visits and frequent blood tests, it seemed to me that I was simply a victim of rotten luck. Each trip to the hospital was a painful reminder that a dark, confining future was relentlessly coming my way.
While I rejoiced each time my doctor told me that dialysis wasn’t yet needed, it was joy with a shadow, as he also made me aware that month by month my creatinine level was slowly but steadily rising, a sure sign of kidney failure. Whatever prayer, changed diet, and acupuncture were achieving, at best the progress of my illness was simply being slowed.
During each visit to the hospital, I had a glimpse into the several wards where other patients were undergoing dialysis. It seemed to me a nightmare vision. Transparent plastic tubes filled with dark red blood ran from the bandaged arms of men and women into machines that looked like props from Star Wars. I hoped against hope that I would not have to join them.
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