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Every time I go to the doctor, they find a new problem. It’s like taking your car for an oil change and finding out it needs new brakes and the muffler is about to fall off.
My first visit to the rheumatologist in two years (praise God for health insurance) ended with her giving me two cortisone injections in the base of my spine and then ordering an x-ray.
The x-ray shows that I now have something new and interesting to worry about. In addition to rheumatoid arthritis, I now have a disease called ankylosing spondilitis. And a side of fries.
Oh, and my monthly blood draw shows signs of an infection. See, I told you I was sick!
…everyone is fighting some kind of battle.
This quote has been attributed in various forms to everyone from Plato to John Watson. Maybe it’s because it’s a universal reminder that needs repeating. I know I need to hear it more often, because I was harshly reminded of it this summer.
Last spring, I worked with a difficult professor in an advanced Creative Writing class. It was handled workshop-style, where each of us has class periods to reveal our heart-felt and delicately-forged story as we would the beloved child of our loins. Then ten to fifteen people talk about what works in the story (you hope at least SOMETHING worked) and what needs to be revised, and how you might improve it. Sometimes we show our baby and the class agrees it is ugly. This can be an uncomfortable process, and it was made much worse by my elderly professor who would snap, “This is crap.” “You’re not writing a believable character, do you even know the basics of character delineation?” “You’re writing bullshit. Write a REAL story.”
Honest professional feedback is absolutely vital to a writer, but this became so painful that some students stopped distributing their work in the workshops and avoided talking during class. Though I received some relatively positive responses, I was upset at this crabby, rude old professor who really hurt some young writers.
While talking with another English professor this summer, I mentioned my experience. And though he agreed with my perspective, he also gave me an additional one. It turns out this professor is one of many forced into an early retirement because the state of Illinois is considering cutting pensions. Unfortunately, this professor has neither a partner nor children, so his teaching was his life. And right before my semester started, he was diagnosed with cancer.
My heart crumpled up.
With our own lives devastated the past few years with every conceivable misfortune, I can understand how trouble causes someone to be irritable and withdrawn and how easy it is to forget that others are hurting, too. There were times when a kind word or action would have been a healing balm on my soul. It’s quite possible that the poor man felt his problems were so insurmountable that he was unable to see how he affected others.
I don’t mean to say that we should be kinder to others so that they are kinder to us. I am saying that we all need more kindness; kindness breeds more kindness, and there is never enough of THAT in the world. Though I may be absorbed in my own problems, when I encounter meanness, anger, irritation, or cruelty, I should look beyond the behavior into the beautiful, hurting soul that could use a little love.
Feel free to keep reminding me of this thought.
Once, when I was going through a difficult situation, a wise friend told me, “Sometimes you have to give up your right to justice for the greater good.”
Everything in me rose up against that statement. As an American, I don’t give up my rights to anybody. I stand up for myself and fight for what’s right. But when I really thought about his advice, I realized that obtaining justice would make me feel better, but would cause damage that I could not live with.
This year, I have faced another situation where I was not given justice. I was doing what was right and honest and was treated badly for it. This wasn’t a minor issue; it broke my heart and led to many impassioned discussions and crying bouts. And I kept thinking of my friend’s advice. Did I want justice badly enough to allow other people to be hurt in the process? Was I willing to accept collateral damage?
In the end, I decided I was not. At the same time, I removed myself from that environment and relief and healing have poured into me. By giving up justice, I am not saying that the way I was treated was okay. I’m saying that there are people I care about more than I care about being proven right. While there are times in the future I will insist on my rights, I hope I always remember to consider all the consequences beforehand.
As the pain clears away, I’ve found something to be thankful for. At the university I write down words I don’t know and look them up to increase my vocabulary. Then I write the definition on a post-it note and stick it to the world map above my computer. Here is one word I looked up this spring:
Obdurate (adj.) 1. Stubbornly persisting in wrongdoing; hardened in feelings. 2. Resistant to persuasion or softening influences.
I don’t think I will ever forget the meaning of that word; it might always be connected to the events of this spring. But thankfully, this time it does not describe me.
When my mom was my age, she lost just about everything she had, including her beloved little farm. She started a completely new life with hardly a penny to her name and a baby daughter to support. Recently she sent me this note:
“We went for a walk in the woods a few days ago and I was praying for your relief – from RA disease and your financial troubles. Then I was looking around the beautiful place and a message came in my head for you. It was this:
Your life is going to change, but you are not alone. God gives you two staffs to support you on this journey. The staffs are wisdom and courage. Wisdom to know what must be done and courage to do it.
I love you, but more importantly, God loves you.”
As Joe and I let go of all we have and all we’ve worked for, this gives me hope for the road ahead of us.
