|Beautiful Crescent Lake at 8:00 a.m. in June|
In the winter months, I constantly ask “why do we live here?” But in June, I wonder why anyone would want to live anywhere else. Sunshine glistens on beautiful Crescent Lake. Goslings and ducklings fluff along after mommy and daddy. The fragrances of tree blossoms, freshly cut grass, and grilled burgers fill the air. A refreshing breeze keeps any mosquitoes at bay. The promise of long summer days ahead feels like a blank cheque. An evening stroll makes me wish June could last forever.
But if June were not so fleeting, it would not be so precious.
I always figured I could admirably handle being told I had three months to live. I could get my house in order, write wonderful revelations along my courageous journey, and share my faith boldly to a captive audience — all while enjoying the attention like any good drama queen. A few weeks of misery, and off I go—home to my Creator.
Since doctors aren’t telling me any such thing, my theory remains untested. But I am still convinced I would do well in that scenario.
Living with a chronic condition however, is something I always knew I’d stink at. I was right. Wonderful revelations prove scarce. Bravado scurries in the opposite direction and hides under the bed when it sees me coming. The compassion of friends wears thin, for good reason.
You learn to do less, sleep more, and try not to whine when it hurts.
After feeling like I’ve lugged two sandbags around in my chest for an entire year, it was a relief to learn I wasn’t entirely out of my mind. My doctors finally found an a-typical bacterial lung infection they can treat.
Relief evolved into distress, however, when I learned the so-called treatment consists of a serious cocktail of medications for at least 18 months, and that they’d need to monitor my liver, kidneys, and eyes during that time. I came home and told my husband “I’m so happy I could cry and so scared I could cry.”
With typical manly sympathy, he drawled “I guess the upshot is, you better cry.”
So I did. And completed a pile of research. And learned how to pronounce and spell more big words like Mycobacterium Avium Complex. Seems the cure might prove more beastly than the disease and would do nothing to increase my resistance in the future.
I’ve decided to seek help from a naturopath to boost my immune system with hopes that it will, at best, help my body fight this off on its own; or, at least, shore things up before I jump into an onslaught of powerful drugs. I’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile, I will try to remember . . .
If good health were not so fleeting, it would not be so precious.