It’s difficult to adequately explain what it feels like to have a serious degenerative illness and have to listen to the barrage of ignorant or callous (and all too often, both) political rhetoric surrounding healthcare legislation. Like most people, I’m angry about the constant disingenuous spin on the health of the ACA and the manufactured need to repeal it rather than attempt a bipartisan effort to improve it. But the thing that bothers me the most is a big part of why all of this is happening in the first place, lack of empathy. The seemingly growing number of people who are unable to show compassion for people who’s life experience is different from their own. Instead of trying to understand each other better, it’s easier to manufacture a narrative that justifies discriminatory behavior. If you label groups of people as other-than-you, it’s easier to dismiss them. “Twenty four million people will lose coverage under this plan? Well, then they should stop being poor. They must be careless with their money, why should I have to contribute to their well being?” “Lifetime coverage limits cut off your kid’s chemo treatment? Where’s your life savings? Why don’t you sell your house? Start a GoFundMe page. It’s your kid, figure it out.” Basically, poor people need to stop being poor, and sick people should’ve planned better.
All of this other-ing and distancing of oneself from entire groups of people makes it easier to be flippant when discussing ideas that benefit one group to the other’s detriment. For instance, throughout all this debate around healthcare, people who spend a lot of time justifying legislation that would allow insurers to discriminate based on a patient’s medical history often talk about “the sick” as if it’s a term for some hypothetical life experience of a nameless, faceless group entity. I get a similar impression when people throw around terms like “pre-existing conditions”, “lifetime coverage limits” and “high-risk pools” as if these details aren’t really a big fucking deal. I realize that, for generally healthy politicians and pundits, these terms are just talking points. They don’t seem to want to acknowledge the real-life (and death) gravity of their words as they dance around the consequences of proposed legislation that would remove the very consumer protections that people’s lives depend on, that my life depends on. Perhaps it’s because they’ve had the good fortune to be generally healthy, or perhaps they just aren’t capable of taking an empathetic stance on issues that don’t directly affect them. (Or perhaps they don’t give a shit because they’ve got a tax break to deliver.)
I guess what I want to say, at the heart of it, is this:
I’m not “other”.
I’m not a nameless, faceless, abstract entity.
I’m not broken, I am disabled due to disease, but that is just one small part of all the things that I am.
I’m not lazy or irresponsible and I didn’t do anything to deserve what happened to me.
My name is Sara.
I have silver hair and a crooked smile.
I’m a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a friend.
I have my grandmother’s loud, uncontainable cackle-laugh.
I’m a listener and a storyteller and a painter and a woman and a human.
I might even be a lot like you.
And I’m just trying to make it to tomorrow.
Thanks for reading.
Go do something good today.
A lot of people ask me for advice on how they can help their loved ones who have chronic, degenerative or terminal illnesses. They especially want to know what to say, how to talk about illness, and feelings, and fear, and all the awful things. I can’t speak for everyone, but I can offer what I know, what I feel, and how my friends and family have helped me.
There are a lot of ways to respond when a friend with degenerative illness shares with you the latest shitty (and scary and often humiliating) ways that their body is breaking down, or the horrible treatments they endure, or the conversations with doctors that are heavy enough to crush even the most valiant among us. People tend to say things like, “It’s going to be ok.” or “But you look great.” or “Have you tried [some shit I read about on the Internet]?” or “You can beat the odds, and maybe they’ll find a cure…” or at least something that sounds helpful or hopeful.
And it’s hard to know what the fuck to say to someone you care about when shitty things are happening to them, because you want those things to NOT be happening to them. You want to make it better, or at least easier, and you are totally freaked out about saying something wrong. (And we know you love us. We know your hearts grow heavy for us. We don’t talk about the hard stuff often because we love you and don’t want to hurt you either.) But, in that moment, we don’t want to hear that it’s going to be ok. It’s not ok. It won’t ever be ok. And we’ll figure some shit out and adapt. But, in those moments that you manage to get us to talk about it, those times when we don’t gloss over it and change the subject, don’t freak out. Just listen.
Listen to what we say.
And let it be shitty.
Let us be sad or pissed or tired or defeated. We won’t always feel that way. But if we tell you the truth, (the stuff we usually don’t share because we don’t want to bring everybody down all the goddamned time), it’s because we need someone to be with us in that particular shitty moment. Don’t try to make it better. Don’t try to clean it up. It’s messy and awful, and we’re hoping with all of our might that you’ll just be there with us in that moment. It’s a place we usually visit alone.
We stay there for a little while sometimes, and before we can climb out and try again tomorrow, we have to
Our most vulnerable selves are peeking from under the blanket, for the chance that you’ll stay, for the chance that your hearts love our hearts enough to sit in the messy and the awful for just a little while.
It takes a real friend to say, “Well that’s goddamned horrible.” and then pour a drink or make a snack and let us talk, and cry, and laugh that not-really-funny-but-I-don’t-know-how-else-to-cope laugh about how fucking seriously ludicrous it all is.
So, my advice to you and your worried heart is: Stay.
Stay with us in the awful moment. It’s a lonely place and invites to join us there might be rare, but if you get one, please accept.
I’ve been struggling with a way to sum up this past year in one perfectly wrapped year-end post, all tied up with ribbons, nice and neat. I’ve begun this post countless times, always trying to find the best way to convey to all of you exactly what this year has been like. I have wanted to share with you how much your love and support (and mustaches) have meant to me this year. But it’s been a complete waste of time. I could never sum up what I have taken away from this year in one pretty post.
This year wasn’t pretty. This year was hard. It rocked me to my core. I am still fighting to reclaim much of who I once was, rebuilding pieces of who I want to be, and learning to make peace with the loss of things I can’t get back. Throughout this year, I felt an incredible range of emotions, from anger and fear, to acceptance and gratitude. The one thing I never felt was alone. In so many different ways, your tweets, your emails, your offers to help, your prayers, hugs and smiles, you guys helped me navigate through this year with hope and gratitude, and some days, maybe, just a little bit of grace.
Some of you, and you know who you are, sat at my bedside and held my hand. Others held my children, and made sure my family was fed. Some of you, without being asked, just kept showing up. It is something I will never forget, and those acts of kindness will shape the way my children live their lives and how they treat others. We are forever changed because once upon a time, a girl fell down, and an entire community came together to pick her up, dust her off, and carry her awhile until she could walk on her own.
I cannot think of any words of my own to express what I feel when I think back on this year. More than anything else, the thing that resonates most was more than just never feeling alone. You made me feel protected. Protected. That’s huge. It meant more to me than you could possibly know. There were times when it was harder than normal to pick myself up and get through one more treatment, one more hospital stay, one more fucking MRI. It’s those moments that I don’t talk about. I don’t tweet about them. Those are the moments that I have to dig deep. I have to forgive myself for feeling so weak, so sad. I have to pull it all back together and remember that my life is beautiful, even if this moment is not. I remember earlier this year, sitting in the quiet, listening to this song, it made me think of all of you. Loving me, protecting me, never letting me stand alone, and I thought, “This is going to be okay.” You did that. I am forever grateful.
Timshel, Mumford and Sons
Thank you, for everything. I’ll eat you up, I love you so.