Living inside an illness puts us, literally, into someone else’s hands. We lose our sense of autonomy and power. We are isolated, sealed into the private rooms of our own minds. We may be in pain but it is hard for those outside the illness to understand, even those extensively trained for such work.
Yet, despite the fact that no one understands we may still want someone to listen, to touch us, to remind us we are still part of the human race.
And, so it was for me. Even after endless painful turning of my body that had wasted to mostly skin and skeleton, I longed for physical touch. I wanted to know there was someone who would fight for my life. I became more afraid that no one might care than I did of dying. All my life my Mother had fought for me, had kept me safe. At even the hint of harm she threw open her wings of courage and fought the danger. But, she was not here and for the first time in my life I was starkly vulnerable and way too weak to fight for myself. No one left now in my isolated world, no one but God.
“I’m ready for the end”, I said silently to God.
“No”, he whispered to me, “you are ready for the beginning.”
And so, this vehicle that had failed me, that the doctors said had no hope of recovering from the severe damage the sickness had ravaged on it, began to heal itself. My vitals started to stabilize; my heart began to beat stronger and with balanced rhythm. My kidneys began to function and my ability to draw and push breath began triggering the ventilator alarm forcing them to start weaning me off of it. I was visibly awake and aware.
I was back, I knew it, and at that moment my cup runneth over with the desire to live again. The best part of my life lay before me in ways I could never imagine. Faith would take me there.