My five words to describe chronic illness – a thousand tiny paper cuts – is not very joyful sounding.
Being the mom to one who wants to live life to the fullest, one who tries to meet the expectations of culture and of self, yet one who also seems to be assaulted by paper cuts at every avenue, is no easy task.
So when job loss, job seeking, health issues and medical appointments collide, the pain of these paper cuts is very real.
I’m not making light of any of the hurts. It’s just that unless there is a genuine catastrophe everything has to be taken in stride.
This week there were one too many paper cuts.
Back-to-back doctor’s appointments brought a new diagnosis and the worsening of an existing one. Neither have a cure. Possible treatments were handed out to my child, who is not really a child, but one far too young to have to deal with so much.
So I wept and cried out to God, “Not my child.”
He spoke softly, “But I gave my child.”
“Yes,” my intellectual self says, “but you knew that three days later he would rise victorious, and I don’t know what will happen.”
Suddenly, in that place, I felt, I sensed, I somehow knew that I don’t need to know.
Through the tears, I can pray. I can breathe. I can plod. I can trust.
What if, even with a thousand tiny paper cuts, I can find joy?
Pamela Piquette is the mom of three adult children, grandma of two sweet baby granddaughters, and wife of more than 30 years. She has Ehlers-Danlos, chronic migraines, fibromyalgia, and dysautonomia.