I expected a confetti cannon…or singing telegram, do they still exist? maybe a drone with a ribbon stating: “YOU HAVE MAST CELL ACTIVATION SYNDROME!” It would need to be in all caps because drones are small, and the ribbon would probably be fairly narrow.  The tone was void of pomp, merely a message in my patient portal from my Allergist-Immunologist stating: 

“Your recent tryptase test was significantly higher than your previous tests. Were you having any sort of mast cell activity related symptoms the day of your last visit?”

My thoughts went on defense:

Stress? Was I having stress? I was in the middle of a remodel with a mere three weeks to get flooring installed in my kitchen and living room before 30+ family and friends would be using my home as a gathering place during our local, three-day small-town festival.

Stress? Was I having any stress? After nearly three decades as a high school special education teacher, I would be retiring in only six weeks, and it was the ‘busy season’ for paperwork and forms.

Stress? Was I having stress? My sister had cardiac issues and testing, all serious enough she updated her will. Eighteen months earlier, our middle brother had unexpectedly dropped dead in his backyard. In the mandatory ‘the deceased passed away unattended’ autopsy, the coroner discovered he instantaneously passed from this world due to asystole–an electric dysfunction of the heart–and underlying heart valve issues. The coroner told the widow to let all family members know they should have their hearts evaluated. Our mother passed away from congestive heart failure six years earlier. 

Stress? Was I having stress? A loved one was in stage four kidney failure and needed a transplant. I had been filling out the paperwork to be evaluated as a living donor.

I continued to read the doctor’s email: “If so, this result would support Mast Cell Activation.”

“Ben, I was having mast cell related allergy-like symptoms the day of my last visit–probably stress related. This week I had a flare (still stress) and had to leave work, but I was able to subdue it following protocol. Thanks Much, Lisa.” Thanks much–a humdrum answer after thirty years of seeking my Holy Grail: a diagnosis.

Two months passed packed with graduation parties, bridal showers, retirement parties, weddings…

…and the floor was finished in time.

…and the school year ended.

…and my sister didn’t die.

…and appointments for living donor evaluation were made.

… and I had a moment, because it was summer and I was retired so…

 I decided to sort through the myriads of boxes that had accumulated in my storage room. I happened upon an innocuous plastic filing box; it was my mom’s. I’d avoided sorting through her boxes and tubs and jewelry and journals for six years…Yeppers, it was exactly six years to the week of her passing in June of 2022. I hadn’t opened the boxes or tubs or journals, because I feared unfurling the memories and wailing and hot unending tears. But, through the opaque sides of the plastic box, I first recognized a Bible by its inch and a half thick red hue. I can do this…it’s only Grandma’s Bible, and Mom’s Bible, and random little notebooks with grocery lists. Probably sixty percent can be recycled. My fragile, fickle feelings could manage this one little plastic box.

I was right, for the most part, but tucked amongst the rest, I found a curious paper folded in quarters with smudged and blotchy ink. It seemed important by the creased edges that were worn and holey in some places–evidently from years of folding and unfolding. I unfolded to find a Gospel Contemplation about Mark 5:21-43 typed out with a prayer written by my mother 10 years earlier. The verses were annotated in her familiar 1950s elementary school teacher cursive with my name and proclamations:

Jarius humbled himself—recognized Jesus’ power. I will do this for Lisa – “Jarius’ fell at Jesus’ feet.  He pleaded earnestly with him.” Mark 5:22-23

Lisa – “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.” Mark 5:34

My abundant tears forced the words out of focus and my blinks flicked the salty drops to the prayer page smudging the already faded ink. Had her tears also fallen across the page? We came from a long line of criers. How many times had she prayed? Folded and unfolded the contemplation and prayer? 

My diagnosis was thirty years in the making. The woman with the issue of blood has nothing on me. With a mother who had contended for healing until her passing, four years after the prayer…who wasn’t alive to witness the answer to her prayer…You never know how or when a prayer will be answered.

That fragile paper prayer was worth more than a thousand bits of confetti.