Do you ever wake up and just think, “Not today”?
For those of us with chronic illnesses (or even difficult habits), finding a way out can seem like an impossible task. After years of trying, the trying itself can become a monstrous chore. I know I have certainly had moments where giving up looked like the best viable option. Except, I would remember, giving up means getting worse.
There’s an anxiety that undergirds every new treatment. What if it doesn’t work? How much money am I wasting? How much time am I wasting? How much time do I have left, anyway?
Today I’m going into the eye doctor to be fitted for scleral lenses. Essentially, they’re large, hard lenses with a reservoir over the cornea to keep fluid on the eye. The hope is that this will ease inflammation and keep my eyes from growing scar tissue in an effort to protect the cornea. Sounds fantastic! Frankly, I’ve been hoping to get these for a few years now, but the expense wasn’t an option until just now.
Yet there’s still that voice in the back of my head – the one that reaches down and twists my stomach into knots. What if it doesn’t work? the voice asks. What if this was all for nothing, and you go blind anyway?
It’s a ridiculous notion, really. I’m in no danger of going blind anytime soon. We have several other options before that even becomes a worry. And yet, it remains my worry.
When my anxiety is high like this, I often turn to friends to vent. A simple text message at midnight to my sister will calm me, even if she doesn’t have the chance to respond until morning. For me, it’s about getting the words out of my head and sharing them with someone who cares. Other times, I might find it helpful to talk to a friend who makes me laugh or to watch something funny. I’m proud to say I own every episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and it never fails to take the edge off.
My last resource, as a left-brained “Virgo”, is to plan. I plan what I would do if I did lose my sight or my ability to move freely again. I am instantly grateful for my vivid imagination and my dreams, for regardless of my physical condition, those have remained untouched. I have always loved writing and storytelling, and that has been my solace.
When I was first rebuilding my life in 2008-09, I happened upon a film that changed my life. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is based on the memoir of a man who has a stroke and loses everything but his ability to blink his left eye. Through months of calculated blinks, he shared a story that gave me strength in that first year.
I actually haven’t thought about his story for a long time until now. Perhaps, if the appointment this afternoon does not go well, I will come home and read his book again. I can find hope in the powerful story and gratitude for my ability to read. Then tomorrow, I can research something new to try.