- I may never be a noteworthy writer. In fact, I might not ever even publish my own book.
- I may always be sort of sick, low-energy, unable to get strong no matter how willing I am to get up and exercise.
I can’t tell you how much these two things affect me, how I keep circling around them, dodging them, trying to prove that they cannot be so. There is great fear involved, and as I try to analyze what it is I’m afraid of, I come face-to-face with prejudices I have had about myself and others, about where value comes from. My greatest hope (besides of getting completely well) is that I can figure out how to access the source of true worth—God’s love, and my value as His daughter. The more I become able to feel His love and approval, the more I can learn to find joy in simply being the best wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, daughter-in-law, visiting teacher that I can.
I’m not saying I’m giving up on writing (or on finding a diagnosis and cure, for that matter). But I am sick and tired (and I mean those two words in their very literal senses) of the quest, the constant reaching, and the accompanying guilt, shame, depression that comes in each day of not making progress in either.
I’m determined to find a way to focus on the present, and on the many tiny (and some huge) joys I already have in my life.
Some examples:
--Through all of this, I have always slept well. I know that most people who struggle with any kind of chronic illness don’t sleep well. I know I’m truly blessed. I also don’t have pain. These things are HUGE.
--I will never stop loving to read, and God has blessed me with a return in ability to concentrate. I can read and judge and discuss what I read with great satisfaction.
--Even though I get too easily exhausted, I CAN walk. I know people who can’t, because of knee issues, etc. I can take a mosey with my husband at twilight.
--I couldn’t have a more patient husband.
.
I had a tough week because of some interactions with people who didn’t understand. It’s so easy to say the wrong thing when you are healthy and strong, especially if you feel you have earned your good health and strength—by getting up early, working out, etc. I guess that’s one lesson I can say that I’ve learned from this: what not to say to sick people--or to anyone at all, really, since you can’t always tell by looking whether someone is struggling with a health issue.
And here are a couple of poems just for you, loyal readers, which I wrote about dealing with an illness. Maybe they will help you understand. Thanks for sticking with me, my friends.
In Their Fifteenth Year of Marriage, Illness Strikes
copyright Darlene Young—don’t copy without permission, please (but I almost always say yes)
Loathe the smell
of myself, these
sheets, the constant
ragged termite whine:
I might die and
leave things undone . . .
or, a thousand times
more harrowing:
I might live
and leave things undone
trailing behind me
in the dust
like a lame limb.
Loathe the walls
and ceiling: my own
body inside out,
this body that you
still, strangely, reach for,
loathsome, fickle
prison that you
--unbelievably--
stroke with reverent
tenderness.
Love was once
the lightning;
it has become
the bread.
While loathing clots
my lashes, coats
my teeth, grits
between my fingers,
love
holds my hair
back from my face
as I wretch,
appears before me
despite my raging:
kind,
still.
Fierce Passage
copyright Darlene Young—don’t copy without permission, please (but I almost always say yes)
Today I was researching my ancestors, sifting through the nested
petals of internet pages for names that belong to me,
people who’ve left their bloody signatures in my genes.
I found Melissa, some sixth great-great of mine, tucked into a corner
of a census under her husband’s name, with only one word to describe her:
invalid. Besides her children, that one word is all she left behind.
It’s been three years since I first got sick--three-and-a-half,
really, but who’s counting?—long enough that when I meet
someone I wonder if I should tell them. “You really don’t know me,”
I could say, “unless you know this one thing.” Instead I play
with being a different person, one who is whole in the eyes
of strangers, simply a human being, anyone. After all, three years
is hardly any time, is less than a tenth of my life, is not my life.
I am not my sickness. I won’t wear the label or watch any kindly soul
lower her eyes while filing me into the box marked invalid.
.
But
while I’d like to be considered complete, I can’t deny
that any account of me isn’t complete without
an accounting of those days, those long afternoons
listening to people talking in other rooms, people
walking by outside the window, people on talk shows who,
while full of other problems, still have energy enough to jump
around the stage--which simply shows how easily we forget what matters.
After so much time in bed I have no time for weight-loss ads,
wrinkle creams, advice columns, tips for success. How much
of a relationship is based on what we think we know?
Which toothpaste tips the scale from “glance away” to “come closer”?
Those pea-green, seasick days in bed have changed forever
the flavor of my days, helped me see that it’s a sin to assume
anything. We can’t ever see at first the whole of anyone,
and yet we each and all have come through some fierce
defining passage. Everyone has come from somewhere.
