Reflection

It's November. November 2016. The air outside is chilly. The trees are half bare, their vibrantly colored leaves scattered on the ground, curling at the edges as their remaining moisture seeps into the air. My first friend-in-motherhood has been dead for a year now, her tragic death still feeling as fresh to my heart as the day it happened. And the anniversary of my getting sick has come back around.

This month we mark five years of undiagnosed illness. Five years of unexplained, untreated pain and ailments. Five years.

It is safe to say there is a lot of reflection happening here.

I remember arriving at the testing facility for my first MRI in 2012. I'd driven there alone, not knowing what to expect. My palms were sweating as I signed in at the desk. I was afraid. Afraid of what the MRI would show. Was there a tumor growing in my brain, pressing on a cranial nerve in my ear? Was this MS? Was it nothing? The receptionist asked me some questions, one of which was how long I'd been experiencing my symptoms. I told her and her eyebrows raised as she did the math. She said something like, "Two hundred twenty days...that's a long time to feel sick!"

I nodded that I agreed, thankful for her compassion because after seven months and numerous doctor appointments I'd already caught on to how uncaring medical professionals could be in circumstances like these.

Two hundred twenty days. That felt like a lifetime, at the time...

Back then, whenever I had a good day, I'd say, maybe it's gone forever. It felt like it could be true but I believed it a little less every time the symptoms returned, until the naivety was worn away. Even then, though, I could not accept that this was how my life would be.

I remember telling my mom that if I knew this was never going to go away, it would be easier to accept. That the not knowing was what made it so hard. The constant wondering if it was gone, if it was coming back, if it was treatable, if it was curable...so many questions and unknowns, that was what made my head swim in endless circles. She suggested I just act like I knew it was permanent so I could move on. But I continued to wonder and freak out and obsess and lament.

I pointed out the arrival of the five year mark to Mr. Amazing while I thought about the way we used to plan for when this was over. Remember that time you were sick for (however long), we planned to say. And we planned to laugh about it because the whole thing would be a distant memory.

"That's one third of our marriage," Mr. Amazing said.

My heart skipped a beat in my chest. I felt my eyes trying to well up. I swallowed it down. I wasn't processing information well, so attempting to do math was out. "Will it always be one third of our marriage?" I asked.

"No. It won't," he said. "In another 5 years, it will be half our marriage. And after that it will always be a majority of our lives together."

My heart skipped another beat. "That is so sad," I said, with dry eyes, as if we were talking about this happening to someone else, someone we barely know; not like it was about me, about us.

We sat, momentarily, in silence.

"These are not pleasant statistics," I said.

"This is reality," he said.

This is Reality.

I've come a long way since those first few years. I understand now that I will never have my old life back. That this is chronic. That all the denial and bargaining in the world won't change this fact. This illness is a permanent fixture in my life. I've had to change my plans and learn to do things differently and accept certain defeats. I will continue to have all of the stages of grief cycling through my emotions, because the process of grief becomes chronic too. It's continuous, just like the illness. There are infinite losses and perpetual grief and these things are difficult to work through. Sometimes it all feels too heavy and I fall apart. But sometimes I'm able to see a strength inside myself that I never knew I had. And I can also finally say I have reached a place of acceptance. 

At least, for the time being.