Life with Chronic Conditions: When it all seems too much

April has been one trying month!

 

 I’ve been particularly angered this past week as a very frail elderly member of our community was knocked down by a dog-not a bad dog but a negligent owner. With each passing day it’s looking less and less likely they will be able to live independently.

 

In the scope of the world issues, it’s small potatoes. However, it looms larger than at other times. I can’t fix the situation in the Ukraine, keep people from hating one another nor do I have a cure for Covid or any other disease. Yet I thought it was doable to provide some level of protection for our elders. Obviously, life has other ideas.

 

So I’ve been in a bit of a funk as I drive to and from the hospital. In the midst of this slump, I came across a post that Anne Lamott recently made about her approaching April birthday. She expressed so much of what I was thinking, plus very helpful thoughts on seeing one’s way through such times. It helped and so I post it in the hopes that it lifts your spirits. It’s followed by a few comments about what else is giving me hope.

 

 

April 5, 2022 Anne Lamott

 

I am going to be 68 in six days, if I live that long. I’m optimistic. Mostly.

 

God, what a world. What a heartbreaking, terrifying freak show. It is completely ruining my birthday plans. I was going to celebrate how age and the grace of myopia have given me the perspective that almost everything sorts itself out in the end. That good will and decency and charity and love always eventually conspire to bring light into the darkest corners. That the crucifixion looked like a big win for the Romans.

 

But turning 68 means you weren’t born yesterday. Turning 68 means you’ve seen what you’ve seen—Ukraine, Sandy Hook, the permafrost…Marjorie Taylor Greene. By 68, you have seen dear friends literally ravaged by cancer, lost children, unspeakable losses. The midterms are coming up. My mind is slipping. My dog died.

 

Really, to use the theological terms, it is just too frigging much.

 

And regrettably, by 68, one is both seriously uninterested in a vigorous debate on the existence of evil, or even worse, a pep talk.

 

So what does that leave? Glad you asked: the answer is simple. A few very best friends with whom you can share your truth. That’s the main thing. By 68, you know that the whole system of our lives works because we are not all nuts on the same day. You call someone and tell them that you hate everyone and all of life, and they will be glad you called. They felt that way three days and you helped them pull out of it by making them laugh or a cup of tea. You took them for a walk, or to Target.

 

Also, besides our friends, getting outside and looking up and around changes us: remember, you can trap bees on the bottom of Mason jars with a bit of honey and without a lid, because they don’t look up. They just walk around bitterly bumping into the glass walls. That is SO me. All they have to do is look up and fly away. So we look up. In 68 years, I have never seen a boring sky. I have never felt blasé about the moon, or birdsong, or paper whites.

 

It is a crazy drunken clown college outside our windows now, almost too much beauty and renewal to take in. The world is warming up.

Well, how does us appreciating spring help the people of Ukraine? If we believe in chaos theory, and the butterfly effect, that the flapping of a Monarch’s wings near my home can lead to a weather change in Tokyo, then maybe noticing beauty—flapping our wings with amazement—changes things in ways we cannot begin to imagine. It means goodness is quantum. Even to help the small world helps. Even prayer, which seems to do nothing. Everything is connected.

 

But quantum is perhaps a little esoteric in our current condition. (Well, mine: I’m sure you’re just fine.) I think infinitely less esoteric stuff at 68. Probably best to have both feet on the ground, ogle the daffodils, take a sack of canned good over to the food pantry, and pick up trash.

 

This helps our insides enormously.

 

So Sunday I will celebrate the absolutely astonishing miracle that I, specifically, was even born. As Fredrick Buechner wrote, “The grace of God means something like, “Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you.” I will celebrate that I have shelter and friends and warm socks and feet to put in them, and that God or Gus found a way to turn the madness and shame of my addiction into grace, I’ll shake my head with wonder, which I do more and more as I age, at all the beauty that is left and all that still works after so much has been taken away. So celebrate with me. Step outside and let your mouth drop open. Feed the poor with me, locally or, if you want to buy me something, make a donation to UNICEF. My party will not be the same without you.

 

Making things a lot more bearable are the smaller things-a Russian friend made me a loaf of their grandmother’s Easter bread. Delicious! Just what one needs with a cup of tea. It helps to know that good friends are just around the corner and they sometimes instinctively know just what to say or do. We can also be that friend for someone else, which also gives us a boost.

 

Mahjong has been an important source of escape and good friends for decades. When we were displaced by a house fire, playing kept me sane. However, when one of those friends died, there was a period of time I couldn’t bear the sound of clicking tiles. But the lure of Mahjong and the friendships it creates, brought us back to the table and once again, it’s an important weekly escape where we work our brains and share the highs and lows of the prior week. 

 

For those who play Mahjong and wonder what type I play,  it’s 16 tiles with wild cards from Hong Kong/Shanghai. We play for chocolate. Yummmmm......