Real Life Matters

No one is exempt from pain. It is inevitable in life. People facing chronic disease, or a similar situation with an undetermined future, must deal with an additional challenge; that is, the challenge of anticipatory loss. This is a special form of loss that involves coping with a future that is vague, uncertain, dark and ominous. Lily Tomlin is famous for saying that “things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse.” That’s true in a way with Parkinson disease, which is a disease without a cure. Medication treats the symptoms and only offers temporary relief. The medication becomes less effective over time, slowly closing the window panes of normal life.

Everyone handles anticipatory loss in their own way. Some people collapse in the face of the onslaught of disease or loss. Some people are miraculously able to accept the challenges, adapt and even thrive. Many people find themselves somewhere in between. Eckhart Tolle outlines the options:

Whenever tragic loss occurs, you either resist or you yield. Some people become bitter or deeply resentful; others become compassionate, wise, and loving. Yielding means inner acceptance of what is. You are open to life. Resistance is an inner contraction, a hardening of the shell of the ego. You are closed. Whatever action you take in a state of inner resistance (which we could also call negativity) will create more outer resistance, and the universe will not be on your side; life will not be helpful. If the shutters are closed, the sunlight cannot come in. When you yield internally, when you surrender, a new dimension of consciousness opens up. If action is possible or necessary, your action will be in alignment with the whole and supported by creative intelligence, the unconditioned consciousness which in a state of inner openness you become one with. Circumstances and people then become helpful, cooperative. Coincidences happen. If no action is possible, you rest in the peace and inner stillness that come with surrender. You rest in God. Tolle, Eckhart. A New Earth (Oprah #61): Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose (pp. 73-74). Penguin Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

We have a ton to learn from people who are able to yield. Yielding is never easy. The act of letting go takes incredible courage and grace. People facing loss in life – and that means all of us, sooner or later – are given an opportunity to respond. We can deny, resist and fight. Or we can adopt a spirit of gratitude for all that remains, let go of our expectations and quietly surrender to what is here today (the status quo) and to whatever comes tomorrow.

In my situation, I have no idea how quickly my symptoms will progress, though it seems like they are gaining momentum. It is really hard for me to yield. But I know that acceptance of my situation is the pathway to peace.

I really like with David Brooks has to say about our response to suffering:

Seasons of suffering kick us in the ass. They are the foghorns that blast us out of our complacency and warn us we are heading for the wrong life.

There’s nothing intrinsically noble about suffering. Sometimes grief is just grief, to be gotten through. Many bad things happen in life, and it’s a mistake to try to sentimentalize these moments away by saying that they must be happening to serve some higher good. But sometimes, when suffering can be connected to a larger narrative of change and redemption, we can suffer our way to wisdom. This is the kind of wisdom you can’t learn from books; you have to experience it yourself. Sometimes you experience your first taste of nobility in the way you respond to suffering.

The theologian Paul Tillich wrote that suffering upsets the normal patterns of life and reminds you that you are not who you thought you were. It smashes through the floor of what you thought was the basement of your soul and reveals a cavity below, and then it smashes through that floor and reveals a cavity below that.

Suffering teaches us gratitude. Normally we take love and friendship for granted. But in seasons of suffering we throw ourselves on others and appreciate the gifts that our loved ones offer. Suffering puts you in solidarity with others who suffer. It makes you more sympathetic to those who share this or some other sort of pain. In this way it tenderizes the heart.

Suffering calls for a response. None of us can avoid suffering, but we can all choose how we respond to it. And, interestingly, few people respond to suffering by seeking pleasure. Nobody says, I lost my child, therefore I should go out and party. They say, I lost my child, and therefore I am equipped to help others who have lost their child. People realize that shallow food won’t satisfy the deep hunger and fill the deep emptiness that suffering reveals. Only spiritual food will do that. Many people respond to pain by practicing generosity.

Finally, suffering shatters the illusion of self-sufficiency, which is an illusion that has to be shattered if any interdependent life is going to begin. Seasons of pain expose the falseness and vanity of most of our ambitions and illuminate the larger reality of living and dying, caring and being cared for. Pain helps us see the true size of our egotistical desires. Before they seemed gigantic and dominated the whole screen. After seasons of suffering, we see that the desires of the ego are very small desires, and certainly not the ones we should organize our lives around. Climbing out of the valley is not like recovering from a disease. Many people don’t come out healed; they come out different. The poet Ted Hughes observed that the things that are the worst to undergo are often the best to remember, because at those low moments the protective shells are taken off, humility is achieved, a problem is clearly presented, and a call to service is clearly received. The Second Mountain (pp. 36-37). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

In my life with chronic disease, I am given each day a choice. I can choose to deny, fight and resist. Alternatively, I can choose to turn toward the pain I’m experiencing and allow it to mold me into a different person.

When I was first diagnosed, my adjustment was a personal disaster. With lots of support, grace and an intervention that can best be described as divine, I stumbled out from the darkness onto a better path. The path was hard to find at times. It had been covered over with fallen trees and other obstacles and was want for use. But I was beginning to understand:

Instead of asking “Why me?” I much more readily ask “How?” — How can I move gracefully through the ache of the farewells that come into my life?

I also ask “Who?” — Who will be with me in this process? — because I know that I cannot go through intense leave-takings without some kinship and some loving support to sustain me. Rupp, Joyce. Praying Our Goodbyes. Ave Maria Press. Kindle Edition.

Life is an endless series of goodbyes and hellos. It sucks to say goodbye to abilities we once held dear. Yet this is the only way to heal. I say goodbye to what was, working to accept everything I have experienced – the good and the bad, all of it. I say hello to my pain and allow it to burn up my ego.

One of the remarkable experiences I had as a student at North Park College was the gift of singing with the college choir. I loved singing the hymn, “How Firm a Foundation” a cappella, standing within a wall of sound. It was so moving and powerful. My youthful brain had no idea how relevant this hymn would be to my future life, but I believe my soul already knew. It spoke to me then and it speaks to me now:

When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,

My grace, all sufficient, shall be thy supply;

The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design

Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.

Goodbye dross. . . . Hello gold!