Reality Checks

My last blog post was interrupted by a well-timed phone call from a dear friend. He knows all too well what I'm going through. We talked about magical thinking and the double-edged sword of the statement, "It could be worse."

Yes, we KNOW it COULD be worse. It IS worse for many, many people. But he could relate when I said, "Sometimes I want to tell people who tell me, 'It could be worse,' 'Yes, it could be worse. Try climbing into my life for a few minutes and it WOULD be worse for YOU.'"

Of course I never say that to anyone, because anyone who says those words to me has the best intentions and he or she wants, sometimes desperately, for me to feel better. When I'm in the mood to even THINK about sharp retorts, I wonder if my misery is a true affront to my friends' sensibilities. Does it scare them? Does their inability to help me feel better force them to resort to the caste system of misery that exists in the world, and be reassured because I'm not any lower than I am right now?

My opinion on the matter is that EVERYONE suffers, and attempts to make comparisons are futile and a waste of mental energy and the breath used to speak of them. Not one of us can step into another's shoes for an instant. If Stuart and I could manufacture the device we call The Empathizer, then people would be able to be in another person's situation for just five minutes. This would be a requirement for anyone approving and denying medical care or other services to help those who suffer. It would be a great fraud detector, too. Maybe it would prevent ill-advised marriage and/or mating. Regular applications of the Empathizer and a good pre-nuptial agreement might prevent divorce. The possibilities are magnificent.

The only way to access The Empathizer is through art: we have to put it in music or story or comedy. It has already appeared in Douglas Adams' work as the Point of View Gun in the movie, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and in Brainstorm as the recording and playback of actual human experience.

I may or may not receive any reward for having survived the hell of the last 57 days, or from any of the previous three surgeries and recovery periods, or the bitter, contentious legal battle that put an end to my marriage, or episodes of post-partum depression, or the past five years of chronic pain, or the loss of friends and family members to death by illness, accident or their own hand, or any of the myriad occasions of deep suffering that I've survived in my life. Heartache, betrayal, grief, illness, and the rest don't have a clause somewhere that says you get ANYTHING for having weathered them.

But those of you who read this blog probably know me pretty well, so you won't be surprised that I'm going to WREST something good out of all of this, and take it to my heart as a souvenir, a little Purple Heart or Congressional Medal of Honor from the Congress of Heather. Like the wanderers in the Wizard of Oz, I'm on a quest for something I already have within me.

I would like my prize to be something I can wear inside my soul that can never be taken away or diminished, but that I can distribute at will without losing any of it. It has something to do with genuine appreciation for my life and loves. It also has the flavor of unconditional compassion and an ability to be of service to myself, my children, family, friends, students and colleagues in ways that really matter.

Perhaps it is my life's work to figure out exactly what The Prize is, so that I can put it into words that have some authentic impact... if only on myself, so that I can recover from this without forgetting any of it. I keep saying that I must have some BIG LESSON to learn, or these medical challenges wouldn't recur. I'm still trying to stop trying to be open to it, whatever IT is.

So. A few more hours to go. I need to eat, to appease my Eating Coaches who want me in fighting condition for tomorrow's ordeal. I need to sleep. I need to get through the nausea from the morphine and finish packing my little hospital bag. I need to putter around a tiny bit and pay some bills and make myself feel ready to leave for another journey into outer space, which is disguised as Northwest Medical Center. I'm sure I'll be attended by my old friends, the angels on the Neuro ward who wave at me as I go by on the stretcher, "Hi, Heather. So sorry to see you again."

Sigh...