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“Here’s the mailman,” Bishop Skylstad welcomed me with his customary
greeting when I delivered the odds and ends of his mail that are addressed
to the Chancery. But something was different: he was standing with a walker, and I don’t mean one of The Walking Dead variety. “My legs just gave out the other day. But I’m OK now. We’ll have our paschal lamb dinner
as planned.” And we did. During Easter week, eight of us seniors were his
guests for this traditional lamb dinner. We might rename it the George
Haspedis memorial meal, this being the first dinner since the death of our
beloved Fr. George, who always prepared the lamb.
Our Paschal tide gathering is only one of several occasions during the year when the Bishop emeritus hosts senior clergy and other guests at his Rockwood Lane villa. This is in continuity with the Bishop’s tradition of hospitality. Back in the day, he hosted back yard barbecues for the Chancery staff and families, and for other groups at the house on Cleveland Street. That was then. We have moved on. He has moved on, but a bit slower and more cautiously. ”This is life,” he acknowledges.
He has set aside most of his public ministry functions, such as Confirmations. But an enhanced ministry of “accompaniment” continues in his evolving life circumstances. Some of you observed Bishop Skylstad using his wheeled walker at the Chrism Mass (April 10) or at the ordination (May 17). When the freshly minted Father Kalema exchanged the sign of peace with Bishop Skylstad, what a precious moment. The Bishop tools over to Sacred Heart Church on an electric scooter. Thanks to Rob McCann and funds from a priests’ retirement endowment, the Bishop boards his accessible van and keeps on keeping on.
Getting older, going slower. No one outruns Father Time, although Sister Madonna does a pretty good job keeping ahead of that sexist bully. He’s catching up with me. During our retreat (May 13-17), my foot started hurting. No ankle twist, no stubbed toe, it just hurt. By the end of the week, I was gimping along. At the ordination I had to tell my partner in the entrance procession, “Hold your horses! I’m not gonna catch that train.” I’m not sure what was the matter, but my self-diagnosis was – gout. I took some ibuprofen, and things cleared up after a few days. I could have gone to Urgent Care and been advised: “It could be gout. Take some ibuprofen, and come back in a few days if you aren’t better.” Why not get professional medical care? Insurance pays for it. That, of course, is a big lie. Insurance pays for nothing. You’re paying for it, with a little out-of-pocket from me. I guess I was lucky this time. There will be a next time when self-diagnosis, self-medication and toughing it out will be stupid and costly.
Was my response when asked, “How are you?” a sign of old age? It happened the other day when a genial lady at the Chancery asked me, and I told her, I actually told her, about my foot, about how I hadn’t slept well the previous two nights. There’s nothing wrong with “Fine.” Henceforth, my policy is, “don’t ask, don’t tell.”