Courage

I am not a brave person. I have done some things that appear, on the face of them, to be acts of courage. But I was not brave. I did them with great fear and anger and resented every minute. Apparently, I am not just a coward, I'm pretty petty too.

Today, I have to go see my Doc. I don't want to. I have to get my shot. I have to have a discussion that I have no interest in having. I have to face the little annoyances of discussing miracles and their possible Eta's. I have to find a way to keep my life working while I shake and sleep for three days straight from the shot. And I have to face the nagging suspicion that none of this is going to make me any better or give me my life back.

I hate shots. I give myself epi-shots fairly often but that doesn't seem to have reduced my fear. The Xolair is worse. It is as thick as gel toothpaste and the tube is bigger than my thumb. So it takes the nurse pushing with both hands to push the serum into my arm and they have to go very slowly. And then, as near as I can tell, it isn't working. The only effects I have identified so far are the three day coma that follows the shot and the enormous bills. I hate the whole stupid thing.

I have to talk to my doctor. I don't want to. I have to tell him that his best efforts have not given me my life back. I have to say that I am tired. I have to tell him that I am scared. I have to tell him that if nebbing is so wonderful, he can do it and have the inside of his head stink and his teeth fall out but as for me and my house, I'm having a hard time seeing the benefit. We are a ways into this now and all the miracles on the horizon keep vanishing like mirages when we come up close. Even the theophylline isn't working now. I have to say how it feels to fight for breath for 3 hours and wonder if it is ok not to fight for it.

I like to ignore things. There is a suck to avoidance ratio that makes life easier. I want to look away and let it go.

But I am not going to.

Yesterday my husband called and said he wanted me to know that he loves me. He likes who I am and likes having me with him. He knows I am self conscious about the side effects of the steroids but he doesn't see what I see. He thinks I am beautiful. And then he said that the most important thing to him was me being by him. So I am going to take my shot and find out if I am on steroids permanently and argue about nebbing and cry about my lost life. He loves me. I have to try.

It made me wonder how often we see someone who is doing something that looks brave to us and misunderstand. We think we are seeing courage but what we are seeing is love. I am not brave. I have no fight left. I am tired and sad and everything hurts. I cannot believe that someone my age can feel so old. I cannot believe that my life is completely consumed by this stupid stupid illness. I don't want this battle. I don't want to work this hard to breathe. But there are people I love. And there are people who love me. That is enough.

I think I will look a little closer now, when I hear great tales of courage. I will listen and I will think, "Who did you love so much, that your love was bigger than the impossible thing?"