More than 10 years ago, I wrote this post about the difficulty of living with "invisible" chronic medical problems. It came up in a conversation tonight and I took a look back at it for the first time in years, and I was shocked. Not by the facts, of course--I know, in an objective, factual sort of way, that I lived in fear of dying or becoming debilitated before my daughter reached adulthood. I know, in that same "story I heard once" sort of way, that I was so limited that she once looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "You can't just stay like this. You can't even play!" I remember, in words, feeling fortunate to be able to keep earning a living, but knowing that it was slowly killing me. I know that anything beyond necessities seemed ridiculously far out of reach, but that was okay, because I didn't have the energy to want to do anything.
And yet, the picture painted in that old post took me entirely by surprise, because I'd forgotten what it felt like.
I'm 52 now. I've lived long enough to support my daughter into adulthood (though there were some dicey periods) and see her start her own business and nearly complete a very good novel. For years, that was my prime objective, the only think I dared to work toward, hope for, pray for.
I'm 52 now, and I'm not just alive. I didn't just last long enough to complete my mission.
I walked four miles today, and that wasn't an accomplishment--it was a compromise, because it was a busy day. I toyed with going kayaking, but really needed to get some work done. To make up the difference, I dictated some blog posts on my exercise bike. I'm working on two books: a novel and a non-fiction book about an issue that has bothered me for years. Sometimes, I drive to Wisconsin just to write in the library overlooking the lake and then have dinner al fresco across the street from the fountain at the marina. I'm on the board of a local non-profit, and I had forgotten that when I was younger, I couldn't have dreamed of volunteering out in the sun all day.
Of course, this happened slowly, and the path wasn't straight. My daughter grew older and more self-sufficient. I switched to freelancing and found that not setting an alarm clock made a tremendous difference in my health. A different medication keeps my blood pressure under control (most of the time) without causing fatigue and depression. I noticed the landmarks--that I was able to walk further and further, that I rarely woke with my heart pounding in my whole body, that the heat didn't bother me as it once had. I knew I was much better. But somehow, until I re-read that blog post this evening, I didn't know I was not just better, but different--and that my life was not just better, but different.
Most days, I don't think about how I feel.
Most days, I don't hold back from anything because I think it might jeopardize my health.
Most days, I don't notice that I'm not doing those things.
Somewhere along the way, my body (if not my mind) realized that I didn't have to focus on staying alive anymore, and I started to live instead.
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