I’m not sure which is harder: being me or being married to me.
(We won’t let my husband comment on this one.)
I’m not so bad, really. In some ways I’m a fantastic person to spend day-in-and-day-out, til-death-do-we-part with. I communicate, and usually not by screaming. I have hobbies, talents, helpful habits, etc. I’m interested in the world around me. Sometimes I even act like a responsible grown-up, in fact, I do laundry every single time my children run out of clean clothes.
It’s just that. Well, you know how none of us is perfect? And have you had times when it seems that all your weaknesses are seeping out of your pores? Times when you are just a wreck, and then you realize that you were just a wreck last month too? And January wasn’t so great either?
Remember Christmas? That was a long time ago.
There are two things that make me hit the wall. One, not getting enough sleep. Two, the anticipation of physical pain. Lately, these two things have gone hand in hand, and this past week was no exception. My reoccurring cyst–my reoccurring nightmare cyst that doctors insist on sticking needles and knives into–flared up again. At night, the pain woke me up every time I changed positions, but the agony in my head was much worse.
“No, I can’t,” I sobbed to my husband one morning. “I just can’t have it lanced again. I don’t care. I would rather die than go through all that again.”
My husband, who is very good at fixing many problems, was just listening to me. This is because he knows (from experience) not to try and fix anything while I’m crying. Eventually I finished, and a child called from downstairs. “Honey,” I needed to say just one more thing, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why everything has to be such a big deal for me.”
My words hung in the air. What I said was accurate, and we both knew it. Things are a bigger deal for me than for my husband. If it was his cyst, he would grit his teeth and get it lanced.
But I’m not sure that my teeth know how to grit. Whatever in the world that means.
The morning that I finally called the doctor’s office I had two dollars and two hours to myself. It was just enough for a cafe au lait at a quiet coffee shop. My mind was unsettled. For a week and a half, I had tried every natural remedy I could google. I had cornered herbalists in the aisles of health food stores. I had prayed and asked my whole church to pray. And here I was, considering the very situation I was desperate to avoid. I needed distraction. I looked at the coffee shop’s bookshelves. There were forensic thrillers, thick romance novels, and Chicken Soup for the Women’s Soul.
Chicken soup it was. I hide the cover behind my bag so that none of the other coffee shop patrons could see what I was reading, and the book fell open to the Serenity Prayer. Really? I almost closed the book, embarrassed by the level of cliche to which I had fallen. But since I was more desperate than prideful at that moment, I read through the familiar words.
Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.
The prayer pressed down on me like the mass of my cyst. The serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Serenity. What does that look like when I’m so scared? Am I just supposed to pretend? But I had already tried to ‘change the things I can.’ I was out of options. More words came to mind: There are some things that you can’t go over, under or around. There are some things that you just have to go through. Oh Lord, I breathed silently, if there is no other way, walk me through it.
And through it we went.
The thing about going through something is that all you really have to do is just keep moving forward. One step, repeat. I walked into the doctor’s office. I told them I was scared. I told them the story of the traumas I had already endured related to this cyst. They referred me to a new surgeon, one who would take the time to go slowly. I called her office. I took some anti-panic medication. I walked into the exam room. I told my story again. They listened. They gave me extra numbing medication. I insisted that my husband stay with me during the procedure. I squeezed his hand, and the surgeon talked me though it. One step at a time. And then it was over.
I have decided that this is as close to serenity that I’m going to get. And that’s okay. For some of us, serenity is a hard thing to come by. My prayer was answered, bit by bit, as I found just enough courage and just enough help to take the next step. Just enough courage and just enough help to go through, and then, to come out on the other side.
And thank you, God, for the other side.