Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 170

Here are a couple of excerpts from a book I recently read, "Beauty in the Broken Places: A Memoir of Love, Faith, and Resilience," by Allison Pataki:

I was so weary of hearing comments like “I could never do what you are doing” and “I don’t know how you’re doing it.” Each comment like that, well-intentioned as it was, only seemed to shine a fresh spotlight on how undesirable my life and our circumstances were. It was like a compliment that highlighted the pain. I was also tired of hearing “We’re worried about you” and “You can’t do this alone.” 

If there had been a transcript for my thoughts when I heard remarks like that, it would have gone something like this: First of all, I’m not “doing it,” whatever you think “it” is that I’m doing. I’m barely coping. I’m getting through each day by fighting back tears and meltdowns, and then at night I thrash around in bed wrestling anxiety and fear and sadness and anger. But not sleep. Sleep is impossible, even though I need sleep. Even though I’m more exhausted than I could have ever imagined possible. So, please, don’t commend me. 

Second, you could do it. Because it’s not a choice. This stroke was foisted on my family. It’s not like we chose it and then decided whether or not we could deal with it. We have to deal with it because it’s our reality. And if it was your reality, you would have to deal with it, too. I don’t ever wish this on you, but if you had to do it, you would have to do it, just like I have to do it. And OK, if you’re worried about me, then pick up some groceries for me, or come over and hold my baby so I can take a shower or a nap. I’m not doing this alone by choice; I don’t want to be alone. I’m asking for all the help I can. I need help. So any help you would like to offer would be appreciated. But don’t tell me you’re worried, because then, being the pleaser that I am, I will worry that you are worried. That shifts the burden onto me to now have to somehow reassure you that I’ll be OK and that you can stop worrying. See how that happens? And I don’t need that right now. 

Fortunately, I never said any of that aloud, at least not in that raw of a delivery, but in some of my lower moments, that was how I felt.

All this year, we’ve heard so much talk about fighting and striving for a full recovery. Everyone hopes and believes you can make a full recovery. I’ve thought so much about this phrase, these words. I’ve wondered just what a “full recovery” would mean or look like. 

Full recovery. To me, I think there’s something in the first word there: “full.” I think we need to focus on that. A full recovery, in my opinion, means that you are able to once again live a full life. What does that mean—a “full life”? That’s a question that each of us can and should answer differently. But this I know for certain: it does not mean a perfect life. Because that’s not possible, and never would have been, stroke or no stroke. Nor does it mean an easy life. A predictable life. We now know that that is not possible, either. A life without long trials and sudden, shocking disruptions does not exist. Not for us, not for anyone.