I Can

Eleven weeks ago, I was making progress.

I had been spending a lot of energy and time trying to get to a healthier place, mentally and physically. I had an incredible team of doctors, a therapist, and a nutritionist who were all being my cheerleaders as I took hard steps forward. My husband Robert and I were strengthening our communication in ways we hadn’t before, and our marriage felt incredibly healthy. Things were starting to open up more as COVID numbers lessened, and I was starting to go back to work at the church more instead of just being at home all the time. Robert and I were looking forward to a 5-day vacation full of relaxation, sleeping, and eating (what we’re best at).

And then I ended up in the ER with crazy amounts of pain. And then a week later, Robert was in the ER for crazy amounts of pain. And all that stuff went out the window.

We figured out Robert’s pain (kidney stones) but we didn’t figure out mine.

That was eleven weeks ago, and still no one seems to know why I’m in pain, why it hurts to walk, why some days even moving from one side of my house to the other or taking a shower takes everything out of me. I can’t give a real hug because the slightest amount of pressure on my body is incredibly painful. Heating pads and sweatpants are my best friends right now.

I’ve thought a lot in the last two months that maybe I should write about some of this, but I’ve held off because I keep thinking “Oh at this next doctor’s appointment, I’ll get answers,” or “Surely this will be my diagnosis and I should wait till I have clear answers,” or “Once I get real answers, this time won’t have been wasted.” I’ve spent a lot of time these last ten weeks on the couch, just waiting for the chronic pain to be over, or at least for one of the five doctors I’ve now seen to give me an answer. I’m a big believer in processing emotions and journaling things out, so I’ve tried to do that some because that’s what I thought you were supposed to do to stay “in the moment” or whatever.

When I hit week nine with no answers, I sat on a couch at my therapist’s office and tried not to cry as I told her I felt a deep depression like I never have before. I have clinical anxiety and depression with a mild case of OCD, so I’m used to hard times, fake it till you make it, or forcing yourself out of bed. But this feels different and deeper.

I‘ve been so fixed on the things I couldn’t do, the answers I don’t have, that it’s hard to not let that become all-consuming. It’s hard to see anything in a positive light, or truly believe that a doctor will ever be able to tell me what’s wrong with me, let alone make me feel better.

But this week, as I sat in my car and had a good cry because a fifth doctor told me they want me to see a sixth doctor for yet another test, I had a thought that was terrifying and then comforting.

What if I never get better? What if I walk with a cane for the rest of my life like I’m doing now? What if they never figure out what’s wrong with me?

Okay.

That’s finally what I came up with.

Okay.

Absolute worst-case scenario, I never get better, I always have chronic pain, I always have trouble walking, I never know why.

I could live with that. I can still have friends. I still have a husband who loves me even if our lives look a little different now. I have two amazing bosses who have proven they will be flexible and work around my limitation. I’m clever, I can figure out how to still do things around my house with limited mobility, I can try simple restorative exercises or yoga to make up for not being able to walk around my neighborhood like I love, I can adjust my diet to what now makes my body feel a little better.

I can I can I can I can.

And I can stop doing things that only make it worse or make me sad. I can stop scrolling through social media seeing all the things I’m missing out on and feeling sorry for myself. I can stop ignoring phone calls and Marco Polos because I think I have nothing to offer people but my sadness. I can stop feeling guilty for asking for help.

My therapist told me to make a list of things I can do right now that would bring me comfort, like drinking my favorite tea or starting on a new cross-stitching project or sitting outside on my back porch in the evening and looking for fireflies. Write them down, she said, then tape it or frame it somewhere prominent in your house where you can see it when the depression hits hard. Force yourself to do one of those things you know you love instead of doing the easy thing of sitting on the couch and wallowing in it, she said.

I can I can I can.

I don’t have any kind of pretty bow to wrap up this post. This is just it. But I gotta be okay with that too.