Tomorrow I return to the work for the first time since my surgery.Every day on my way to work I cross a bridge. Last January, nearly defeated from my last flare-up, I decided that one of two choices existed: I could drive off the bridge and die or I could drive straight in to oncoming traffic and hope for an accident that necessitated a trip to the hospital. I felt that if I ended up in the hospital, someone would address my pain. The only thing I knew that morning: I desperately needed the pain to end!
Approximately 200 ft. before I crossed the bridge, I pulled my car off to the side of the road and called the nurse from the neurosurgeon’s office. When I initially contacted his office, the nurse said I could not get an appointment for approximately 6 weeks, however before our conversation ended she encouraged me to call if I needed anything.I decided to take a chance and make the call.
Fortunately she answered the phone. She responded with empathy, compassion and authenticity. No only did she nourish my spirit but she also offered several suggestions and helpful tips to help me deal with pain. She also arranged to reschedule my appointment for an earlier date. Her compassion provided a glimmer of hope that sustained me until my first appointment. I felt sad, I wanted to cry,but I feared exacerbation of my facial pain more. I refused to cry. I started the car and drove to work. I continued forward with the rest of my day and did not speak about the tenuous moments before I crossed the bridge
As I shared the details of this incident with my mother today, I could not find enough words to describe the pervasive and insidious nature of living with this affliction nor could I express enough gratitude for the nurse who walked me through those critical moments of pain. She saved my life. Shocked by the depth of my emotion overwhelming sadness covered my mother’s face. Compassion and crippling sadness filled her eyes. She said she did not know that I experienced so much pain. “Why”, she asked, “didn’t you tell me it was so terrible?” I cried.
I proceeded to tell her the real story behind what my family frequently called my “headaches”. At one point during our conversation I reached for a tissue and I wiped my face. I started laughing hysterically. I cried again, but this time, I cried tears of joy. Want to guess why I am laughing and crying at the same time?” I asked. I gave her my explanation. Very simply: that’s what living with TN does to a person. It is human to cry. Feelings are neither right nor wrong. Crying is an expression of emotion, but wiping away the tears hurts my face more than the pain behind the feeling. I went on to explain to that my laughter came from the actualization: I no longer have to choose between letting the tears flow and wiping them away.
Within a simple moment of clarity and a profound moment of gratitude I found yet another lens in which to view my pain. I cried again. Tears are the perfect cleaner for the lens that looks into my soul. Gratitude is the reflection mirrored back to my heart.
May your day be filled with peace!