Before Words

My ninety-year old mother, who knows far too much about the impact of chronic pain, once said that ‘Illness is not for the faint of heart!” At the time, I thought this was a cute jest. Now, after 12 years of dealing with my own illness, I understand the absolute truth of this statement.

This is the story of my intimate relationship with illness. There were so many times along the way that I wanted to do anything but write this story. The truth of the matter is that I still get embarrassed about how I dealt with many things, and wonder why I want to publicly present my dark side.

As you will read, I hit the depths of despair more times than I would like to admit. There were a few moments when suicide seemed like such a sweet option. I raged against the world; against my father and mother, my wife Lucy and doctors; even against God. I have crossed the boundary into craziness, and let me tell you, that is a frightening place to be. But at least those were dramatic moments, and drama has an astonishing way of clearing the air. Far worse were the ongoing moments of doubt that I was doing the right thing, of questioning what was wrong with me for not being able to handle myself better, and for losing hope of ever recovering.

The worst part of chronic illness and pain, far worse than the symptoms themselves, was the way that it took over my life. Somewhere in the process I lost myself. The biggest battle that I had to face over and over again was how to reclaim my life.

But at the same time, I learned that there are astonishing rewards that present themselves along the way. My illness forced me to let go of what I couldn’t do anymore, and in the process opened dazzling new vistas before me. Teachers, presenting themselves in situations I never would have imagined, offered brilliant lessons for the taking. If I hadn’t had to come to terms with the life that I had lost, I would never have found a far more valuable life worth living.

Although the pages are filled with stories of travelling through foreign countries and encountering mysterious cultures, all in the hope of seeking answers to my health problems, it is really a story of having taken a much longer journey; all the way from living within the realm of my head to taking up residence in my heart. That may be the longest journey that one can take. And that is a story that I am proud to tell.

As a psychotherapist, it was tempting to put on my professional hat, analyzing my cognitive and emotional responses while explaining different treatment modalities. That would have been easy, but it would have defeated the purpose: to simply share the experience of someone attempting to overcome the drastic impact of illness without having a road map of knowing what to do. I became lost so many times along the way, and yet each time found a way through.

Stories have been told ever since humans first sat around a fire at night. Sometimes they recounted trivial events of that day. Other times they proudly displayed heroism in epic battles, real or imagined. They may have argued over conflicts, discussed the weather or the children. Or maybe they looked up at the sky at those tiny white lights and asked the truly big questions.

We all have stories. What is important is that we get to share them with each other. This is how we come to make sense of all issues, including dealing with the impact of something like a chronic illness.

Do with this story what you will. If it touches a chord in you somehow, that’s wonderful. Why not close your eyes for a moment, and see what it evokes in your story about yourself? And if you cannot relate at all to how I dealt with things, that’s even better. Acknowledge how you would have done things differently, and in that, take full ownership of who you truly are. What could be more wonderful than that?