There’s something I lost when I was diagnosed that I still want back. I miss it more than I miss the freedom to act without planning or precaution, or the ability to simply not think about my own safety. It’s hard to explain exactly what it is to someone who hasn’t lost it themselves, but anyone who has lost it will know what I mean, and how it can change your whole life, forever.
What I lost was a faith in my own body. When you know medical horror, or how it feels to be so sick that it doesn’t seem like such a terrible thing to simply stop being, when you know by heart what the inside of a hospital room at four in the morning sounds like, and how you can be suddenly and terribly blindsided by illness in a way that never could have been expected, then you also know with painful clarity that there are no certainties in this life. There is no guarantee that these fragile bodies we all nurture will perform the tasks they are meant to, or that their capacity for perseverance will match that of our souls. It seems like a simple lesson, an obvious one, perhaps, but the difference between knowing these things on a logical level and knowing them on an emotional level is the difference between being told about a picture and seeing it with your own eyes.
And I wish I didn’t know this, yet. I wish I didn’t know what the look in my parent’s eyes was like when they were afraid for the life of their daughter. I can’t unlearn what that look was, though, or what it was like to be in the ICU and have a doctor tell me I was a few hours from dead, or any of the sadness and losses that have come since. Nor can I prevent what is still to come.
What I can do is ring the bells that still can ring. I can celebrate the deep river of love that flows through my life, I can hold the hopefulness of the human spirit up as sacred, and I can be overwhelmed with gratitude.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
-Leonard Cohen
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January 15, 2008 at 6:59 pm
Minnesota Nice
Another souldepth post, Beth.
I love Leonard Cohen – a very mystical fellow.
I had the day off today. It was very cold, but the sky had an immense clarity to it and the sun was shining.
I stopped to buy a paper and the clerk said, “how’s your day going?”. Without thinking, I said “just wonderful – thank you for reminding me!”.
I did not know that today was going to be great when I woke up, but I was open to the possibility.
(BTW – have you heard Dylan sing “Ring Them Bells”?)
January 15, 2008 at 7:29 pm
Naomi
Yes, the light shines in, and it is always shining from within, and from a never-ending source.
Lovely poem. Lovely thoughts.
January 15, 2008 at 7:35 pm
Jillian
What you’ve written about, is the reason why I’m glad I was diagnosed as a kid. I have never known anything other than this life, I feel my body must be strong to have survived what it went through at such a young age. I’m here and I’m alive, that’s good enough for me. If my body fails me I’ll deal with it then. I think I suffer from diabetes tunnel vision, I just focus on pushing forward not the future. I’m sorry you have to know this loss.
January 15, 2008 at 7:46 pm
Sara
Wow. Love the poem.
I was diagnosed in college and ended up in the ER at about 2 AM. What I remember is hearing I was going to be admitted and wondering if I should call my mom and wake her up then or wait until the morning. I knew she would be so upset that I wanted to give her one more good night of sleep.
January 16, 2008 at 8:41 am
amylia
Wow, Beth. This hit me hard. I am sitting here at Caribou Coffee and it seems all around me just stopped when I read your post. It is so damn true and powerful. Tears are welling up behind my eyes. You have a way with words, and I will buy your books and stories whenever they come out and eat them up greedily with my eyes and heart.
January 18, 2008 at 12:00 pm
Briana
Wow, this is really powerful. Thanks.
November 14, 2008 at 12:52 pm
Pat Maden
Wow, Beth. Thank you for sharing that. I have felt awkward about asking, but wondered how long you have lived with this and what it must be like to have to constantly be checking on your insulin level. I am moved.
You make such a wonderful contribution to BUF, and this message is but one more way to help us see the wonder and gift of every day.