God is an Iron

With thanks to Spider Robinson for allowing me to borrow (steal) his title....

Many many years ago, a friend (George) at university introduced me to the writings of Spider Robinson. The man is very funny and insightful and punny. Makes for a very good combination. So I enjoyed everything he wrote. Then I read Mindkiller. First of all, it was about a society that was addicted to "Wiring", plugging a wire from an individual's head to a wall outlet that provided electrical stimulation of the pleasure centre of the brain. Woo hoo! Electrical stimulation of the brain! Very nifty stuff and a topic that is still being explored for treatments of all sorts of nasty neurological conditions and a subject of which I have immense interest.
Secondly, it was, or half of it was, set in Halifax. Cool.
Thirdly, I knew a little about the topic and was majoring in psychology. It was like this guy had written this book for me. I had also read Michael Crichton's The Terminal Man and loved that.
The second chapter of Mindkiller had actually been included in an anthology of short stories. The story was called God is an Iron.
When I first saw this title I thought "iron:anvil". Then I thought "iron:something to remove wrinkles". But God is an anvil or God removes wrinkles didn't make a lot of sense to me. So I decided to read the story to find out what it meant. And boy, was Spider right. God is THE master of irony.

All this is to simply set up how I found out I had MS.

In January, 1998, my (ex)husband and I went on vacation to Quebec City. During the height of the big ice storm, no less. I wanted to go to St. Ann de Beaupre to send my grandmother a postcard from there. If you are Catholic you probably know about the place. It is a shrine to Saint Anne, the mother of Mary, grandmother of Jesus. People have been going there on pilgrammages for ages to seek relief from physical ailments and afflictions. My grandmother had been there in 1939 (she had polio as a child that left her lame). I knew she'd appreciate that we had made a stop there.

The church that is there is really a gorgeous piece of work. We went into the church and were the only ones. We walked around, admiring the structure, the tiles, and amazed at the number of crutches, canes, and orthotics that were tacked to the front pillars, left behind by people who had been "miraculously" cured.

The next day, as I was brushing my hair, my right arm felt kind of weak. And I was tripping over my right foot.; I was having trouble holding my toothbrush and even writing. We returned to Halifax and I went back to work, but went to see my family doc about the increasing weakness. She told me to come back if it got any worse and she would try to get me in to see someone. Two days later I was back in her office and she was on the phone to a colleague who saw me at the hospital that aftrnoon. At 5:45 that evening the neurologist was telling me I had MS. A couple of hours later, I was telling my parents that it was a little ironic that my symptoms began the day after I had visited St. Anne de Beaupre. And that's when it hit me.: God really IS an iron.

My gandmother received the postcard and just loved it. But the entire family was sworn to keep from her my diagnosis. She passed away a year and a half later and I like to think she passed into heaven dancing a Sottish jig and then, upon discovering I had MS, giving God a piece of her mind about that. My grandmother had a wonderful sense of humour, but I doubt she would have appreciated the irony. I went to St. Anne de Beaupre and got afflicted.

S.