Do I Dare?

 In 2013, after the loss of my beloved father, I started having multiple health issues. It began with several UTIs, or maybe one long-lasting UTI that seemed to clear up but kept returning. Then, I had two kidney stones. From June through September, I felt terrible most of the time. I was exhausted, struggling to push away my grief, and focused on a job that brought me no joy. I was in a relationship that I depended on with a man I loved and trusted completely; I’d have cheerfully laid down my life for him. This was no small thing since I do not trust easily.

I recall waking up one Sunday morning beside him, stretching, and crying out in pain. My entire body hurt. There wasn’t a muscle or a joint that wasn’t affected, from my neck to my toes. I felt as though I was catching the flu, complete with the full body aches, fever, and exhaustion it brings. Cold fear welled up in my mind; the recollection of that moment is as sharp and clear as though it just happened yesterday. I knew what was wrong with me because I’d heard it described by my sister, who had been diagnosed with the rheumatoid disease about ten years previously.

I made an appointment with my doctor to be tested. She assured me it was my imagination, that it was highly unlikely that I had RD. But, as though to humor me, she ordered blood tests. She said not to put too much weight on the outcome and promised that she’d call me with the results. A week later, I was driving back to work from my lunch break when my phone rang. It was the nurse from my doctor’s office. My rheumatoid factor was extremely high. They were referring me to a rheumatologist for further testing.

It would not be hyperbolic to say that my life changed in that moment. I called my partner and told him the news. He asked me what that meant, long term, and I told him the truth; it could mean mild disability, severe disability, or early death. It would likely mean constant monitoring and long-term medication. It would certainly mean dealing with near-constant pain of varying degrees. I might end up in a wheelchair. There were other risks as well. I detailed them. He was silent.

The silence grew. Over the next few months, while I started treatment for rheumatoid disease – a treatment that included Methotrexate and Plaquenil, both medications with scary side effects – the silence pervaded our relationship. Oh, we talked, but I needed reassurance that he seemed unable to give. When I had to walk with a cane, and lamented feeling like an old woman though I was only in my early forties, he seemed uncomfortable and made a joke about me having a third leg. When I got sick in the middle of the night from Methotrexate and huddled in the bathroom, vomiting, he stayed in bed with his music turned up loud. When I asked him if he’d still love me if my hair fell out from taking cancer medications, he didn’t answer immediately, then said, “Well sure, but that won’t really happen, right?”

By March 20, 2014, I knew we were headed for the end. On April 9, he broke up with me. We had talked about getting married; one evening over dinner, he told me that when I was ready to make things permanent, he was. I made it clear that I wanted the same. My illness changed everything. I asked him point blank if he was breaking up with me because I was sick. He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “No!” But when you’re with someone and you love that person, you get to know when they aren’t telling you the truth. He wasn’t.

Grief hit me like a tsunami and I dealt with the destruction of that moment for years. It was six months before I felt as though I could really live. Six months before I felt as though I wanted to. After that, I felt as though I could never be worth loving again. I was defective. Broken. Less than whole, less than desirable, less than worthy. During the nearly ten years since that time, I’ve only been in one other relationship, with someone I knew I could never love. That made it safe because if he decided to leave me, it wouldn’t devastate me. When he told me he loved me, I broke it off. I didn’t want him to love me, because I knew I could never love him. I decided that I’d never love anyone again. Love wasn’t safe. Love could destroy you.

And now, here I am, almost ten years later. I learned a lot in ten years, mostly about myself. I learned that I am complete. I learned that regardless of my physical condition, I am worthy of love. I learned to love myself. And finally, in early January of this year, I learned that I don’t need to be afraid of having my heart broken. On January 9, I wrote in my journal that it didn't matter if I couldn't trust a man not to break my heart, because I could trust myself to be ok, even if my heart was broken. While a relationship may end, that won’t end me. Understanding this truth felt like finishing a book that had been years in the reading. Once that final chapter was complete, I could move on to the next volume in the series.

I visited my rheumatologist this week, and I got some incredible news. For the first time in ten years, my bloodwork was normal. I have not been in a flare in more than two months. My pain level is extremely low – just a few twinges, here and there. I’ve shed around a hundred pounds, I’m exercising, eating healthy, and feeling good. My rheumatologist said the magic word.

Remission.

I never let myself even hope for it. Every person who has a chronic, incurable illness longs to hear that word but never really believes they can achieve it. It brings its own anxiety because you never know how long it will last. Can it really be true? Do I dare believe it?

For the last few days, I’ve sat with the idea. I’ve felt shock, awe, gratitude, and pure joy. In the midst of some other things in my life that have been sad, painful, and worrisome, I feel that I’ve received an incredible gift. The juxtaposition of happiness and sorrow is like a microcosm of my life. But life is like that, right? We have sorrow and we have joy. We suffer and we celebrate. That’s the nature of being human.

So yeah, I dare. I dare to accept remission. I dare to believe that good things are coming, that they’ve already arrived in my life. I dare to believe that a person who feels broken can be healed because healing is more than just the physical. Remission or not, I am healed. I was healed the moment I realized that I am worthy, I am whole, and I am complete in myself, regardless of whether my body reflects that. 

If you are struggling, if you feel less than whole, less than worthy, not good enough to be cared for or to receive love because you think some piece of you is missing, hear this: You are whole. You are more than the sum of your parts. Dare to accept that. You are worthy of love, of life, of all good things.