In the last few days I've talked to two different friends who are down. I've been down before. This fall I was in therapy for major depression, until a few weeks ago when I became unable to sit for even a few minutes, much less an hour. I thought at the time that most of my depression could be traced back to my chronic injuries and my inability to run. However, since then, I have lost not only the ability to run but also the ability to bike, to swim, to walk further than from one room to another in my own house, to sit down to dinner, to ride in the car (and since I cannot walk either, basically I've lost the ability to leave my house,) to go to church, to be in the band, to participate in choir, to teach, to sit at a computer, to put on my own socks, to tie my own shoes, to get my hair cut, etc. Basically, I've lost the ability to do anything not involving lying on the couch. Or in bed. And sometimes it hurts too much sleep, so that's out too.
This should all be very depressing. Yes, it hurts enough sometimes that I cry and moan. Sometimes I am quite grumpy with my family due to the pain. But I don't believe that I am depressed at the moment. Odd.
I should probably provide a disclaimer before I go any further. I am scheduled to have surgery on Tuesday. It's spine surgery. It requires general anesthesia and a neurosurgeon and some expensive and high-tech equipment. And yes, I am a bit nervous about that. But the surgeon seems quite confident that this surgery will fix my pain. Perhaps some of my depression cynicism reemerges for a moment when I think of that, but I quash it pretty quickly. On the whole, I tend to believe that after Tuesday, or maybe after Wednesday or Thursday, I will start to feel better and that my life will return more or less to normal in a couple of months. Therefore, what I am about to say I believe I can only say because I believe that this pain is nearing an end.
That said, if I somehow had the secret power to go back in time and magically cure my back before it ever got to this point, I'm not sure that I would. I feel oddly grateful (now that I know an end is near) for this interlude from normal life. Yes, it's incredibly painful and debilitating. Yes, it's scary. But it's also been a very interesting experience. Just as I do not for a second regret having done natural childbirth, I wouldn't sacrifice this experience just to get rid of the memory of the pain. The memory will fade, after all.
I confessed to a friend that I feel grateful for this time, and she asked why. I've been trying to figure out just what it is. The pain itself is very purifying, I think. There is something about horrible pain that makes one blind to trivialities. When the goal for the day--or the hour, if a whole day is too much to contemplate--is just to survive it, suddenly things like bad hair and gained weight, lack of productivity and a clutter-filled house just aren't that important. I don't feel anxious that I haven't exercised because, quite frankly, I can think of nothing I want to do less. I want to lie on the couch, find a position that hurts only a bearable amount, and not move from it until I can get up for another dose of narcotics. When the pain is intense, I want to be alone with it in a quiet place and breathe into it and live it and honor it and bless it and make it holy. It is, for me at least, a spiritual experience. Plus, I also had the chance during the last couple of weeks to read Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning and Barbara Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World, both of which have helped me live my pain fully and with as much grace as possible.
Being visibly in pain and more confined and for a longer stretch than most people have to be with an illness or injury has also brought to me the blessing of compassion. I may not be on anyone's fun list, but I certainly have been well taken care of. My husband has been carrying the load not only of paying the bills but also picking up a good deal of the child care. And the wife care. He helps me put on my pajamas, drives me to physical therapy, and has been unfailingly patient. My sister Katy came over one week and took down and put away all of my Christmas decorations. She vacuumed up the fallen needles and my stairs while the vacuum was out. She dragged the tree out to the street--ordinarily Doug's job, but she did it herself. The next week she came and scrubbed my kitchen floor, something that made me breathe easier and really needed to be done, as my back has been hurt since last spring. My mom has driven my daughter to ballet and cleaned her room. She had me spend the weekend a few weeks ago and waited on me hand and foot, literally, as one of the favors I asked was for her to pull on my foot to take pressure off my spine. When she hosted my birthday dinner, she arranged it so that people stood at the counter with me so that I didn't have to eat my birthday dinner alone. My friend Jen came over and taught me to knit and brought me some DVDs of her favorite TV series and some chocolate. Another friend volunteered to take Adam to baseball practice every week, and a neighbor is going to take Gretchen to preschool while I am with a neurosurgeon. Even though I am not currently much fun, not a good runner, not a good musician, not a good housekeeper or mom, really not a good anything, I feel as beloved as I ever have. I have nothing to offer to others, but I still feel valued. What a remarkable gift.
Talking to my friend tonight on the phone I began to wonder if perhaps I am also feeling oddly mentally OK because this has been, if nothing else, a time off. Not a time away. I didn't get to run the relay in Florida I had intended to do, and I keep missing out on shows and outings, but it has been a break from, well, everything. An enforced break, but apparently I, like most women, need it to be enforced if it's to happen. This has been a time set apart. Apart for pain, yes, but still apart, for me and about me. Although I have not yet begun to heal physically, I think that time by itself has helped my soul heal from the wounds of daily living. If all goes well, I hope to come out of this with a renewed sense of perspective, a revised outlook on life, a fresh start.
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