Why I Will Not Fight Illness
[Author’s note: these words were penned twenty-five years ago but never shared. Although I barely recognize the voice (yes, it is mine), the message remains the same. “I will not fight illness”…and here are the reasons why.]
Long ago, I decided not to fight illness anymore. I have more adventurous things to do that don’t leave much time or energy for fighting a battle.
One in five people in our country has a disability because of genetics, accident, illness, or war – a sad reality.
But when I listen to those challenged by mortal limitations, I hear a language of warfare.
With pride, people fight whatever medical enemy they live with. They battle cancer, ‘struggle’ with heart disease, and ‘combat’ mental illness.
Some lose. Some win – but I am not sure what that means, as eventually, we all die.
I have lived with Multiple Sclerosis for many years, but I have given up battling this disease.
Why I will not fight illness
My reason comes from observing what this language means in our culture and its effect on our collective soul. We use the language of warfare as if it were a romantic adventure where the good guy wins and the bad guy loses.
Or with illness, the patient arises from her sickbed, and the disease has been conquered.
Only we know better. Sometimes the good guy comes home in a box, and the bad guy lives to terrorize again.
The language of warfare carries violent images of assault weapons, land mines, and bombs. Daily we are given stories and pictures of combat from news networks intent on reporting what sells – not what heals.
They may try to avoid describing the real horrors, but we know the images — soldiers bleeding in the street, unheard screams of dying men and women, innocent children killed or maimed because their homes are in the drop zone.
Some unintended results of fighting illness
We call this collateral damage.
I have observed collateral damage in people fighting illness. It is called financial ruin, divorce, mental breakdown, and despair.
When a war is won, I ask, “For whom? And at what sacrifice? Is a war won the end of warfare?”
We hear the statistics, but distance ourselves from the realities of life for those who have gone to war and returned home mutilated and changed forever.
We distance ourselves from the realities of illness or disability much the same way. No, the jargon of warfare is not a language I want to use. Anywhere.
One alternative to fighting illness
Combat is not the only way to get what we want. There is another way to confront our enemies—political or medical—and it is the way of peace.
Jesus, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King tried to teach us this, but I am afraid we are slow learners.
We are still engaged in conflict, attacking domestic abuse, spending money on the war against drugs, battling the causes of illnesses.
When will it stop? How will it end?
For me, one small step towards peace and healing is to give up the language of warfare in all areas of my life. I will no longer do battle with MS. (Nor will I attack the dust balls under my bed or raid the refrigerator.)
A proactive approach
I propose another language to describe a proactive approach to living with an illness. It is the language of peace. Instead of seeing disease as a conquerable enemy, I see it as a mountain to climb. This mountain provokes images of peace and adventure amid trial and pain.
A mountain challenges me to stretch beyond my perceived limitations, and from the top, I get a changed perspective on the world.
I cannot climb a mountain without a profound transformation. I have no expectations of winning the war with a mountain. A mountain won’t surrender.
This mountain is not a mere molehill. Its magnificence reaches so high I have to squeeze the air for oxygen. Exhausted from plodding through deep snow for miles, my feet and hands are numb from the cold (or perhaps MS).
I am not without fear. However, my eyes explore a vista of sustaining beauty and clarity as I trudge toward my goal.
I listen to the mountain’s silence as crystalline frost grows in my nostrils. Light echoes off the snow, scorching my eyes as the razor-like cold cuts through my fleece-lined jacket as if it were made of paper.
Tips on climbing a mountain
But I do not fight.
I do not fight because I have trained well in body and mind to embrace the pain and hardships before me. As my breathing becomes labored in thin air, I do not battle because I know that to do so takes energy I cannot afford to spend.
So I become mindful of the continuous rhythmic sound of my breath. Inhaling becomes a prayer for strength and courage. Exhaling, I let go of worries that hold me back from reaching the top. And I take one more step forward.
I train well and pack carefully for this adventure. I do not carry weapons and armor like a warrior, though I am happy to use ski poles for balance.
I consent to a few toxins necessary for survival, but my most important gear is something to help me keep my grip in slippery places.
It is a sense of humor. Laughter is much easier on the body than anger or aggression and can be quite disarming. I like that a lot!
I bring plenty of soul food to sustain me on my journey – scriptures, poetry, and stories of heroes’ journeys stored in my heart since my youth bring me nourishment and uphold me in my weakness.
I may yearn for lobster and pecan pie, but my trainers caution me about diet. I will balance what I consume for my body with that which sustains my soul.
The power of surrender
I soon realize that I own too much’ stuff for an adventure on this mountain.’
And so I let go.
I let go of symbols of abundance that seemed evidence of my success at one time, but now they are a burden. Who needs a fancy car at the top of a mountain anyway?
I let go of old dreams and visions, so there will be plenty of space for new dreams and visions.
And I let go of people who are shocked that someone with MS would go mountain climbing instead of to battle.
I carry lots of maps drawn by multitudes of people with chronic and disabling conditions who climbed this mountain before me. They carefully marked paths to follow and areas to avoid, and upon their return, they reflected on their experience.
Reading about their adventures gives me courage.
I choose my traveling companions wisely. Today I invite Thich Nhat Hanh and Maya Angelou to come with me. They remind me to love and laugh and sing.
Another time it might be Charles Schultz or Gandhi. They do the same thing.
It does not matter who comes as a companion as long as it is someone who understands that I will not fight my way to the top.
Reaching a goal with a chronic illness
I will breathe my way there.
I will live my way there, one slow step after another.
I will cry my way there.
I will make it to the top of the mountain.
Or not.
But wherever I land, I will use the breath I have left to laugh loudly and sing a song of thanksgiving.
I will not fight.
Would you like more ‘food for thought’ on your life journey?
Sign up for The Reflective Pen now.
