I try not to share my physical ailments on Social Media. Health struggles come part and parcel to oldness, and the internet, often awash with old folk posting their ailments, could care less.
Today, however, I must protest. I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis five or so years ago and along with that comes an occasional bout with eczema, i.e., my immune system decides to attack skin instead of joints. For the past two weeks I’ve resembled someone who rolled around naked in poison ivy for an hour or so.
It’s everywhere, and it’s awful. The topical analgesics don’t work anymore, and the steroids they put me on haven’t managed to keep it from spreading. I’ve had to make do with Benadryl, cold plunges, Ambien, fervent prayer, etc., trying to ride this out for the next week or so.
I feel sad, like a sick child watching through a bedroom window while his friends frolic in the summer sun.
Thankfully, my kids are mostly self-sufficient, and Elaine has been stepping in when she can to help with our day-to-day family stuff. The only thing I have to worry about is being uncomfortable. I’m excusing myself from perseverating over bills, people, future, or the many things I spend most of my emotional energy worrying about.
There’s only one issue.
It’s simple, clear, and outside of my control.
That’s a far cry from the nonstop, daily, without-rest worrying that I’m prone to. I’m not physically comfortable by any stretch, but with most of my worries out of the way, the world looks a little different.
Because sitting, lying down, and clothing makes things worse, I’ve taken to pacing back and forth in the cool of our basement, in the style of Adam, basking in the freedom that comes from putting worry in its place.
I keep asking, if my past has been so good, why am I so worried about the future?
Somehow, sequestered down here in the basement, my life feels bigger – fuller than it does when I’m thinking about all the things that might go wrong.
I have spent most of my life worrying about things that have never happened. ~ Unknown
It’s interesting to note how much head-space worry requires, and how much energy I spend nurturing something that has no positive payoff whatsoever. The only power it has is to get in the way of whatever happiness sits an arm’s length away. I’ve always know this, cognitively speaking, but it takes a drastic, prolonged bout with suffering to make it real.
Sadly, after this skin issue goes away, it won’t be long before I’m back to “normal,” thinking constantly about everything that’s wrong with the world, shrinking my life back into some tiny, mundane thing that nobody wants to live.
I need a plan, some rhythm of intentionality to remind me of the lies that worry tells, and the life that it’s trying to keep me from.
That kind of freedom will require work, alot of it, but freedom never asks nearly as much as bondage.
