Archives for January 2016

I’m averaging a good cry about once a day for the last two weeks. When I “discovered” a back injury two Wednesdays ago and have since been mostly confined to my bed while my children and husband fetch things for me, I have had some good sobbing fits, mostly feeling sorry for myself and how awful it must be for my husband to have to take care of me. I have cried when he washes dishes and plays with the children and when he looks so tired from work and then home-work and then caring for me. I have cried for my own pitiful self and this body that is not working properly (and I’m blaming myself for not taking care better of me, as if by feats of will and strength I could have prevented any pain or suffering from happening to me ever).

I have let the tears flow so much that my explanations to the children of why I cannot get up and help them have been followed by my son’s seemingly uncaring response: “I know. And you’re probably gonna cry about it now.” (He’s 6. And logical. Mostly.)

I am embarrassed, sometimes by my tears and the pity I feel at my awful situation and how frustrated I am to be so dependent on others. After two weeks, I am walking without help again and doing most things for myself, and today, I almost forgot that I’d had a back injury, except for the way my body flinches a little if I try to take it too fast.

It is times like these that I wonder if I actually have any fight in me. When the going gets tough, I don’t even want to get going. I just want to curl up under the covers and cry until the going goes away.

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A few months ago, I read The Martian. I’ve yet to see the movie and I wasn’t sure I’d like the book, but one page was all it took. Aside from the humor in the writing and the unique setting (Mars), the story raised challenging questions about survival and how a person might live if facing certain and imminent death.

Stranded on Mars with limited supplies, would astronaut Mark Watney roll over and die, giving up from the start, or would he fight for his survival? (I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by suggesting it’s the latter. It would have been a short book otherwise.)

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I think of the strong people I know,  those who have fought to overcome difficulties and disabilities for a chance at living.

I know a mom who is caring for a child she did not birth, whose first year of life was not as it should be. The child was kept alive but not given the chance to live. Over this child was spoken a lot of nevers. And yet with a mom willing to fight for a better life, this child, though delayed compared to others of the same age, is learning to live in the world. This child will hear and grow and speak and walk because someone was willing to fight for life.

I think of the man who always had two legs until the day a motorcycle accident caused him to lose part of one. And how he had to learn to walk again, except not on the two legs he was born with.

I think of a woman whose body is wracked with a dozen diseases, and she fights them with humor and joy, donning superhero costumes for chemo treatments. Her body is working against her but her spirit cannot be killed.

I think of the man caring for his young wife though her mind is not what it was. I hear the tired in his words, and I sense the fight wavering. Still, he presses on to bring her back to herself.

I hold these up not as evidence of superhumanity because they are flesh and blood like you and me. (And I cannot say for certain if they have had times of wanting to give up.)

They are, to me, evidence of the difference between being alive and living.

“Alive” and “living” are not necessarily  the same thing. We can be technically alive in our bodies and not be living. Even in the face of death, disability or suffering, we can fight for a better life.

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Healing is a slow process.

I know there are stories of instant healings, of a touch or a prayer bringing long-awaited relief, but those often seem the exception. Most healing I’ve encountered is slow, steady, labor. Hard work. Endurance.

It is frustrating and riddled with setbacks. Progress isn’t always measured the way we would like.

As I lay on my back these last 12 days, I have also cried about the slowness of my healing. But my body didn’t break down in a day so how could I expect healing to come quickly?

It is scary, sometimes, the slow healing. Because when you’re flat on your back for so long, you begin to wonder if you’ll ever get back up.

Isn’t it sometimes easier just to stay down?

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Do your stretches. Walk past the bathroom to the kitchen first. Don’t overdo it. It’s OK to rest.

These are the kinds of encouragement I heard while I was down. And while I’m frustrated to have “lost” two weeks of productive life (I should put that in quotes, too), who’s to say these days haven’t been profitable?

I have spent more time with the kids. I’ve had to let people help me. I’ve read a lot. I’ve gotten hooked on a new show. (Okay, maybe that’s not exactly profitable.) I’ve listened. And waited.

In the past, I have tied my value as a person to what I do. How busy I am or how many things I can cross off a list in a day. These two weeks have reminded me that the value of a life is not in what a person does but in who she is.

Profitable, indeed.