What are hard moments meant to teach us?
And what are we afraid to learn from them?
I keep thinking about this dream I had a few weeks ago. I had this disease that made my vision get worse and worse, and no matter how hard I tried, there was no cure. I would keep getting surgery and taking medications, and it would never end.
I woke up in a panic. But instead of calming myself down and telling myself it was all a bad dream, I had to remind myself that it was all real. There was no waking up from it.
Lately, I keep wishing I could shake this all off as if it had never happened, as if I had made it all up. But, here we are.
When people ask about how my recovery from my eye surgery last week has been, I don’t have an easy answer. I know the answer they want is that I’m okay, and that everything will be alright. But the truth is, I have no idea. It will still be another few weeks until I can know for sure if the surgery was successful.
It also doesn’t help that my last surgery in February had failed, and so it makes it hard to find the strength to keep feeling hopeful. Hope takes a lot of effort, and work. And I don’t know if I have it in me right now to feel that. I feel more neutral, numb. Taking news as it comes.
But this has been my 7th eye surgery in 4 years, and well, I’m exhausted. I don’t feel like I’m in recovery anymore. I feel like an animal wounded in battle. Now when my surgeons try to help me, they assure me they’re doing everything they can, but also admit my disease is aggressive. They simply don’t know what to do.
So, what’s the point of all this? Every time I face any difficult obstacle , I think, “What is the universe trying to teach me? What else do I need to learn? What am I resisting?” Worse yet, what if there is no point to it? What if there’s nothing to learn?
When you recover after surgery, you have to rebuild yourself all over again. And while I’ve rebuilt myself up many times, the work is never done. I can’t help feeling like Sisyphus, pushing the boulder up the same hill over and over again. Rebuilding my eyes only for them to break down again and have me start over.
One night I couldn’t sleep, and listened to an audiobook my friend Aaron sent me, of Paul Coelho ‘s “Warrior of the Light.” A Warrior of the Light is described as many things, but the book attempts to provide a guideline for someone who strives to find a way to live in the world with hope and uncertainty. I could see why Aaron had sent me the book. One line stuck out to me as I drifted to sleep: “A Warrior of the Light is tested over and over again, until he is taught the lesson he never wanted to learn.”
Even though Sisyphus is climbing over and over again, he still learns something different every time, even though all the conditions are the same. On each journey, he is changing a tiny bit. He’s a different person every time he climbs that hill.
That is the best way to put how I feel. All the motions of recovery are the same, but I always feel slightly altered after each one. My heart breaks all over again, then widens a little more. I feel the deepest sadness I have ever felt, and the warmest love. I lose all my faith in the world, and then I slowly find my way back to it again.
Recovery is a lesson in patience, and in grounding. In being grateful for the love in my life. It is a lesson in being as present as possible, when the future can always change at any moment.
Sometimes, I wonder if once I learn everything I’m meant to, the surgeries will stop. My eyes will let me be live without always being in fear of what will come next.
Is the only way through all of this to completely surrender? Every time I think I’ve learned how, the universe reminds me over and over that I have no control.
Whenever I am in this state, it’s like my whole present and future has been wiped clear and I’m in free fall. My life before me feels as blurry as the damaged vision in my left eye. I can’t see anything beyond the ominous gray cloud blocking me. I can’t see what lies before me. All I have is my current body, and my current state.
Sometimes I struggle with surrender, because I associate it with giving up. And to fight for my health takes so much energy and work. But maybe it’s just another exercise in surrendering control, until by the next surgery, or difficult obstacle, I won’t feel like my life has been shattered. I’ll just feel peace with what is.
Again, I don’t have the answers. But asking these questions feels like the only way to start.
Love,
Julia