Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

suffering

Fighting for life

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.

****

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.)

****

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.)

wp-1453238746495.jpg

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.

****

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?

****

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.

What we really need when we're suffering

On one of the busy highways near our house, it’s nothing out of the ordinary to see hundreds of semi-trucks passing through.

What is out of the ordinary is that on one Sunday a year, more than 300 trucks travel a 28-mile loop at 30-40 miles per hour, and people pull over and line the roads and bridges to watch.

It’s an intentional convoy in support of the Make-A-Wish Foundation, one part of a day full of activities raising money and celebrating the work of an organization that is in the trenches with families whose lives revolve around illnesses, hospital visits, doctors and medicines.

We first learned about this convoy last year when, from our house near the highway, we heard honking and sirens. Neither is unusual for the area in which we live, but it sounded like something major was going on. We couldn’t find any reports on the live incident website that is our standard source of information, and then we must have googled it or something and we found out that this is an on-purpose cacophony.

This year, we decided to set up a blanket at the park and watch the convoy, instead of just listening to the sounds of it from afar.

What an amazing experience.

The speed limit on the highway is 65-plus, yet people lined the roadway, sitting in lawn chairs, or in their cars with the hatches open. Dozens of people gathered at the park, and the overpasses, also, drew a crowd of onlookers.wpid-20150510_142657.jpg

We waited till we heard the first sounds and then it got exciting as we waved to the trucks that passed by.

I can only imagine what was going through the minds of those traveling on the highway that day. Some of them waved at us. Others took the first opportunity to pass the slow-moving trucks. Some seemed oblivious that anything was out of the norm.

How can they not notice? I thought.

—

Imagine you are in a battle. A fight for your life. Or the life of someone you love. Or for your marriage. Or for sanity.

Whatever the battle, it is day in, day out. No vacation. No rest. There is never time off.

You are weary. Exhausted. Tired in soul and spirit and body and mind. What little rest you get is plagued by worries and nightmares and fears. Maybe there’s an occasional respite. Maybe not. But no matter what, you press on. You show up to do the next hard thing. And the next. And you don’t know when or how or where or if it will end or end well.

Most of the people you know are either oblivious to the battle or fighting their own similar battle and so you either find yourself at a loss for words trying to describe what it’s like or you’re commiserating with people whose situations are as bad or worse than yours.

Hope. Joy. They’re in short supply.

But then something crazy happens. A bunch of people get together and they acknowledge your pain. More than that, they see it. And they say, “We’re here for you. Even if we don’t really know how to help, we’re with you. You’re not forgotten. Keep fighting. Keep going.”

They call everyone they know and they pick a day and they donate their time and fuel for their vehicles and they say, “We don’t care what it costs us, we’re going to make some noise for your cause.”

And then they do that. They make a whole lot of noise. Horns and sirens and engine brakes. For 28 miles, anyone within ear shot knows that something big is happening. And they attract attention. People who otherwise might not remember that there are people suffering and fighting and battling hard stuff show up and they cheer and they say, “We’re with you, too.”

For one day, instead of a weary warrior, you’re practically a celebrity. You are riding in semi-trucks and fire trucks and dump trucks, waving to people who are with you and for you, even if they have no idea who you are.

For one day, you are celebrated. And seen. For one day, you believe you can make it another day.

—

I have not personally watched anyone battle cancer. My kids have not spent more than a couple of nights in the hospital in their entire lives. I don’t know what it’s like to center your entire life on hospital visits and medicines. I have watched from the outside as family members live this life, and I have felt helpless. And inspired. I’ve said the wrong thing and done the wrong thing or done or said nothing, which is sometimes right and sometimes wrong.

I do not know physical suffering, but I have known emotional suffering. The battle was not for my  body but my mind, not for a sick kid but a marriage in need of healing.

So I can’t speak for families with cancer or terminal illnesses, but I know that when we were suffering, what we needed was what I saw at the convoy.   We needed cheerleaders. People to stand with us and encourage us, to see our suffering and acknowledge it existed. To convince us that another day of fighting through was worth it. That we weren’t alone.

Some of our best memories of our season of suffering are of people who stood by us and didn’t give up. Who loved us and prayed for us and stood with us in the most difficult days. When our heads were filled with sadness and despair, they made some noise in the form of encouragement and truth. They believed what we couldn’t, that we would get through this and good would come of it.

I know that those are sometimes the wrong words to say, or sometimes they are said at the wrong time, but whether spoken out loud or not, they are an important message to  those who are suffering. Sometimes, they are “spoken” just by showing up.wpid-20150510_134834.jpg

—

In reality, there are lots of things we need when we’re suffering, but there’s no one-size-fits-all list of what that is. Every situation, every person, every family will require something different.

But I don’t know anyone in any kind of suffering who couldn’t use a friend. Even an imperfect one, willing to show up, ask questions, and do the wrong thing with the right heart is a blessing.

Nobody wants to fight alone or be forgotten.

Suffering is a lonely place sometimes.

Take a page from the book of a truck convoy. Show up. Make some noise. Cheer them on.

What have you most appreciated from people in a time of suffering? What have you least appreciated?

What ways do you show people you care when they are facing tough times?