That’s the thing about opening up your smallest, darkest, most fearful places– wrench open the painted-shut window, force the rusted hinges to work and everyone who peers in can see your quaking misgivings and old old hurts. But air comes in, too, and light, and through my comment box and the lips of my family, love.
So it was that you were with me in the vinyl chair, with the projected letters and the tests and numbers. My kind and compassionate doctor looked and looked again, and calculated, and asked questions and made notes, and said, “We’re going to get everything for you we can.” He never once made me feel either a curiosity or a failure. I left with my prescription and weary eyes I could close while John drove me home.
Along with the relief that flooded in was the old familiar sadness, that my condition just does not get better, that the best we can do is about the same as my current prescription, and that healing for me is a weaving of acceptance of my situation and a matrix of magnifiers and coping mechanisms.
But the thing about telling your truth, as plain as you can, and letting light and love into the dark places you’ve given up hiding or trying to pretend away, is that even in the sadness, I’m not alone. I, who struggle to see, am seen. By my Maker, my husband, my children and those friends close-up and far off, and that recognition makes all the difference.