Edmond-François Aman-Jean: Reverie (c. 1900)

"The patient seems to be Recovering this morning."

With my self-diagnosis of Seasonal Affective Disorder came the emerging realization that I might already be recovering. Diseases and disorders do not just settle in and stay, not usually, not always. They pass through, first rendering us clueless about what might be ailing us or if we're even ailing. These visitors follow a progression from barely there to almost gone, leaving their benefactor or victim in some state of Recovery afterward. Recovery is where I integrate whatever that latest brush might have attempted to teach me. It's where I might freshly revel in same-old activities. It's where symptoms turn vestigial, and effects increasingly become intangible. Memories linger, though, of self-doubt and revelation, exhaustion and foreboding, and a particular haunting uncertainty. The Muse was convinced I had some bug. I believed I had lost my backbone and began slacking. Whatever the lessons, if any, I continue assimilating and integrating in Recovery.

I'm still naive enough to believe that everything probably happens for a reason and that my job primarily consists of determining underlying reasons and making some sense of them. This amounts to a full-time occupation, and after many decades of dedicated contemplation, I remain filled with still-open questions. I make more sense than I draw conclusions, for making sense requires no finely-tipped pencil. I can make sense with a fat, blunt crayon, while conclusions require greater skill and comprehension. When making sense, I can credibly claim to be continually learning without feeling required to show my work, while drawn conclusions stand as testaments to beliefs in the ultimate finiteness of this game. This game remains infinite regardless of the lessons learned or the number of disorders from which anyone fully recovers.

Many disorders carry long tails. Their influence continues long after their symptoms ease, for each might reasonably bring some certainty into question, into speculation. Recovery might intend to mend fully, but like the pursuit of happiness we discussed yesterday, its truer purpose might be distraction. Lingering healing remains a kind of healing even if it never fully resolves the problem. The memory of any trauma might never fade further than the initial experience. The worst ones might never abandon us. Again, even those forms of Recovery probably carry some purpose worthy of my attempts at understanding, even when I attempt them with my ever-more-blunt crayon. I carry vestiges of every disease and disorder I ever contracted. They left at least their fingerprints on my spirit and contributed to who I've become. The idea of moving on seems naive and prima facie evidence of inexperience.

I'm trying out my legs again even though they suddenly feel alien; not the same legs I so un-self-consciously moved around on last Tuesday. I began to believe my story, that I was wounded and convalescing, that I carried a note from an understanding someone. I gave myself a few days of idleness as if they might be just the medicine whatever I was suffering from needed as a cure. There are no cures, only treatments, and any response, including no response, might qualify as a valid treatment. The Muse remains under surveillance a year and a half after her last radiation treatment. No definitive sign of that cancer continuing has emerged, but the surveillance continues in its original earnestness. The frequency of the check-ups diminishes over time, but that earnestness continues. It seems that cancer, though likely conquered, retains its tenancy, whether lurking as a future threat or just a lingering memory.

I sometimes judge others harshly. My recent dance with Seasonal Affective Disorder reminded me that I can never know what another is in Recovery from battling, but that it's a sure bet that everyone I encounter is Recovering from something, most likely many things. These healings might never fully heal but still benefit the recovering patient. Patience seems required from both the sufferer and his neighbors. I apologized yesterday for abandoning my post last week when I was suffering the effects of that latest disorder. It took Herculean courage to apologize, but I knew it was necessary. She graciously replied that my apology was not necessary, an act of Grace as false as it was necessary. Apologies seem infinitely necessary and just as infinitely unnecessary, a contradiction that ultimately renders them essential. I apologize to myself for contracting that suspected bug in the first place, then apologize for how I reacted to that bug's presence. I am never my most valiant when overtaken by some invader, whether bug or bugaboo. The patient seems to be Recovering this morning.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz