Inflamed Without Passion; Writing Through Disease

Day two of Prednisone, round three.

The last time I felt like doing something enjoyable, or merely productive, the trees were bare. They say I am supposed to write — that a writer must put fingers to paper, or keyboard, but my fingers are like limp swollen sausages. I have no interest in attempting a contortionist act to sacrifice my limbs for the sake of proclaiming my rights as an author. Perhaps this appears angry in nature — though I can attest to nothing of the sort. I am not angry. To be angry, I’d have to have a modicum of passion or purpose — I have none. Instead, I feel defeated.

When I was around ten years of age, my grandmother was diagnosed with endometrial cancer. She sought treatment in the form of chemotherapy and radiation. I watched her lose her hair, grow ever weaker, and stop her beloved activity of cooking. In the mornings at yeshiva, I buried my head into the siddur begging God to grant her a full recovery. The awareness of mortality, though ever-present in my young existence, bore down with a heavy hand in those months. And somehow, through means which can only be hypothesized, she survived. I have my own hypothesis.

While difficult to prove, I believe my grandmother made it through due to sheer will and optimism. Having suffered the death of her mother at a mere fifteen years old, she knows all too well, the pain of living without close loved ones. I often think about the many decades she has lived without her parents or siblings. She is strong and she has a purpose: to be with her children and grandchildren. She is also more social than I ever was, and has enjoyed life more than I ever have.

I do believe willpower plays a massive role in our life’s trajectory. But, like reading an aspirational quote, the knowledge only goes so far. I am having great trouble stitching the ideal to the reality of my situation. I cannot seem to turn my will into a positive belief — the belief that I can get better. Recover.

I haven’t written in months, simply because I haven’t seen a point. What is my purpose? For the last few years, I have spent semester upon semester teaching college students about rhetoric in writing. We’ve spent countless hours discussing purpose. Yet, here I am, feeling as if I have none — not in existing and not in writing.

I received a call from a new friend yesterday and we discussed my health issues for a few minutes. A minute or so into explaining my predicament, I felt the urge to stop speaking, to censor myself, to avoid being the downer. And then another thought entered my psyche: don’t. Don’t stop speaking about this. This is life. It isn’t perfect. It isn’t clean. How will covering it with a bow assist me in any way?

More upsetting than being in the throes of this auto-immune disorder is the sheer isolation I feel. I just wish I knew with confidence, that I could heal. The medications are serious, and the other health ailments that are likely to come along are serious as well. If I think about it in the big picture, it is enough to ruin a day or a week — or the last six months.

I’ve been told by many that I am strong and I don’t know what to do with this supposed accolade. I do not consider myself to be strong. The disease is strong — it takes hold of my feet, ankles, knees, hands, wrists, shoulders, throat, neck, and back. It prevents me from walking, from playing music, from lifting a camera…from opening a bottle, or putting on a bra. Yet, there is still a part of me that believes in the concept of staying positive. Perhaps this is the edge of strength..perhaps.

I want to believe that I deserve to feel well. I want to look to the future and believe in all of the possibilities, and not just the ideal ones, like making another record or publishing my first book. I want to believe that I will be able to walk to work with no pain, that I will be able to reach for the bar on the subway and grip the cold metal. My predominant wishes are very simple.

So for now, I am working on working on believing in the good.