Laughter is the Best Medicine
Earlier today, I was updating one of my classes about my medical situation, letting the students know that I would be absent a couple of days soon for surgery procedures and whatnot. My students are bright, and they know when things aren't right, so I try to be open and honest with them. After I explained the purpose of a fistula and how dialysis works, I asked the kids if they had any questions for me. One boy raised his hand, and in a timid voice, he looked at me and said, "Are you scared?" I had to fight back tears because I was so moved that he was concerned about my state of mind and vulnerability. I told him that yes, I was scared, but that I have a lot of wonderful people in my life that are supporting me, and that mom is going with me to the surgery. Laughing, I told them that I'm 33, but I'm never too old to want my mama. The kids thought that was funny, and we all had a good laugh.
That moment stuck with me all afternoon, though. I've had people ask me how I've been able to keep my chin up through all of this, and my mom and I have had numerous conversations about the way our family has handled the hand we've been dealt between my father's illness and my medical issues. To me, being upbeat and positive is really the only option. Wallowing in self-pity doesn't change anything. But I think the big key has been laughter... That's my healing medicine.
When I first found out I was sick, I was very angry with my body. How could it betray me like this? It was October of last year, almost 1 year ago, that I first found out that I had kidney issues. This last year has been awful. I'm not going to lie. But I also look back and realize that upon my diagnosis in January, my doctor told me that - if I didn't treat this illness - I probably wouldn't live until summer. How scary is that? Being told at 32 that you have a prognosis of less than 6 months if you don't treat a disease? I also recently found out that during my stay at the hospital this summer, there were hushed conversations going on behind closed doors between my doctors because they were concerned that, if it weren't for my youth and otherwise good health, I wouldn't have been able to make it through those intense infections. I knew things were bad when I was moved to ICU, but I didn't realize just how bad they were, and how close I was to not making it through that.
So now here I am... several months later, back at work, and feeling great. I think I've come to a certain level of peace with regard to my health and well-being. As someone who constantly berated myself for having a dessert or indulging in some much-loved carbs, cursing the curves of my body and little pudgy places, and making laundry-lists of the things I would change about my appearance, I've moved beyond that. I think I've established a respectful relationship between my spiritual and physical selves.
One of the biggest emotional challenges I've had to face lately has been the loss of my hair. Throughout my life, regardless of the size of my bum or the width of my thighs, I've always felt confidence in the beauty of my hair. Seeing piles of hair in the sink after brushing or pulling handfuls of hair from the drain after washing makes my heart sink, and seeing my white freckled scalp peeking through in the mirror hurts more than I ever thought possible. But I'm slowly coming to peace with that too. I realize that my body has been through some serious trauma, and this is simply a by-product of that experience. And even though I really wish my hair wasn't falling out, and I wish I didn't have to spend so much time in the hospital toying with death this summer, I wouldn't trade this whole experience for anything.
It'd be very easy to be resentful. After all, this Wegener's disease has stolen my ability to have children and left me nearly bald. My body has been put through the wringer. In the last year it's been covered in scars, steroid-induced straie marks, and bruises. My muscles have atrophied, and simple tasks like climbing stairs became major challenges. But who wants to live like that?
Being chronically ill makes every one of life's moments sweeter. It makes the good things seem bigger and the bad things seem smaller. I find myself driving more slowly, being more patient, and trying to listen more. That's not to say that I don't get frustrated or angry, but I laugh more often and more heartily. During this last year, I've had the joy of experiencing more love and support than many people see in a lifetime. I've realized how valuable friends and family are in life. Unfortunately, the price I've had to pay for these lessons was my kidneys. While I'm certainly not rejoicing about the fact that this illness struck me, I am grateful that I have the opportunity to take the lessons I've learned forward for the rest of my life.
That moment stuck with me all afternoon, though. I've had people ask me how I've been able to keep my chin up through all of this, and my mom and I have had numerous conversations about the way our family has handled the hand we've been dealt between my father's illness and my medical issues. To me, being upbeat and positive is really the only option. Wallowing in self-pity doesn't change anything. But I think the big key has been laughter... That's my healing medicine.
When I first found out I was sick, I was very angry with my body. How could it betray me like this? It was October of last year, almost 1 year ago, that I first found out that I had kidney issues. This last year has been awful. I'm not going to lie. But I also look back and realize that upon my diagnosis in January, my doctor told me that - if I didn't treat this illness - I probably wouldn't live until summer. How scary is that? Being told at 32 that you have a prognosis of less than 6 months if you don't treat a disease? I also recently found out that during my stay at the hospital this summer, there were hushed conversations going on behind closed doors between my doctors because they were concerned that, if it weren't for my youth and otherwise good health, I wouldn't have been able to make it through those intense infections. I knew things were bad when I was moved to ICU, but I didn't realize just how bad they were, and how close I was to not making it through that.
So now here I am... several months later, back at work, and feeling great. I think I've come to a certain level of peace with regard to my health and well-being. As someone who constantly berated myself for having a dessert or indulging in some much-loved carbs, cursing the curves of my body and little pudgy places, and making laundry-lists of the things I would change about my appearance, I've moved beyond that. I think I've established a respectful relationship between my spiritual and physical selves.
One of the biggest emotional challenges I've had to face lately has been the loss of my hair. Throughout my life, regardless of the size of my bum or the width of my thighs, I've always felt confidence in the beauty of my hair. Seeing piles of hair in the sink after brushing or pulling handfuls of hair from the drain after washing makes my heart sink, and seeing my white freckled scalp peeking through in the mirror hurts more than I ever thought possible. But I'm slowly coming to peace with that too. I realize that my body has been through some serious trauma, and this is simply a by-product of that experience. And even though I really wish my hair wasn't falling out, and I wish I didn't have to spend so much time in the hospital toying with death this summer, I wouldn't trade this whole experience for anything.
It'd be very easy to be resentful. After all, this Wegener's disease has stolen my ability to have children and left me nearly bald. My body has been put through the wringer. In the last year it's been covered in scars, steroid-induced straie marks, and bruises. My muscles have atrophied, and simple tasks like climbing stairs became major challenges. But who wants to live like that?
Being chronically ill makes every one of life's moments sweeter. It makes the good things seem bigger and the bad things seem smaller. I find myself driving more slowly, being more patient, and trying to listen more. That's not to say that I don't get frustrated or angry, but I laugh more often and more heartily. During this last year, I've had the joy of experiencing more love and support than many people see in a lifetime. I've realized how valuable friends and family are in life. Unfortunately, the price I've had to pay for these lessons was my kidneys. While I'm certainly not rejoicing about the fact that this illness struck me, I am grateful that I have the opportunity to take the lessons I've learned forward for the rest of my life.
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