I'm on it, Virginia

Really, it's a wonder I haven't had a more literarily inspired post sooner. Anyone who has ever heard me mention any book has seen my face ignited with passion as I expound on some literary wonder. If you don't like reading, well, honestly, what are you doing reading a blog, but consider this your warning that I'm about to set off on a highly "LAD" inspired post. That is to say, these are the thoughts I would have once shared with just myself (L), Amanda, and Desiree as we mutually got excited about the wonders revealed about the universe through quality literature.

I'm deeply indebted to Dr. Schaak for a great deal of my literary formation, but particularly now I'm grateful for the choice to include the essay "On Being Ill" in his course on Virginia Woolf. Before my accident, a fantastic care package included my copy of the essay, and at some point in my rehab stay, I asked a roommate to bring it to me. I opened it up yesterday, and I found a charge from Virginia directly to me as she commented that the English language lacks the vocabulary to articulately describe pain or illness. She mentioned the British born would never dare "take liberties with the language" (7) and lamented the words would remain unintegrated "unless the Americans, whose genius is so much happier in the making of new words than in the disposition of the old, will come to our help and set the springs aflow" (7). Well, I'm on it, Virginia.

I'm an American audacious enough to attempt to express to you what my suffering is like. Here again, I'm indebted to a Multnomah professor who sparked my "Jewish phase" (that will never end). Years ago, Dr. Pothen perhaps knowingly sparked my interest in the writings of Elie Wiesel, and my interest in Jewish authors, particularly those dealing with suffering, has only increased exponentially. I wrote my thesis on Wiesel and how he deals with the madness inflicted by suffering through storytelling. It's a little more complex than that, but it took me over twenty pages to weakly make my point. I've never let go of the idea that I barely started to make sense of two years ago.

I'm not going to rehash my thesis here, but I bring up the topic to say that since I now find myself in a position of suffering, to prevent the onset of (or perhaps simultaneously encourage) madness, I must tell my story. And as Virginia Woolf has so aptly pointed out, the English language lacks the necessary vocabulary to communicate my experience. Wiesel knew it was impossible to convey experience but that it's critical to try.

I have to try to tell you about the tiny pinprick that hovers somewhere just to the left of my spine, perhaps above my hip, hidden in the recesses of muscle and tissue that yells so softly or so quickly that I can't identify it, but I think it might be pain. Am I in pain right now? No. But this poke fires through the day confusing me on my sensation of right or not okay. I can't find the cause of the culprit, and it's buried so deep within my body, that it's easy to ignore when it's not shouting in it's maddening whisper. 

It's clearly different than the dull ache that never leaves the site of my injury. That can't be registered as pain either. It's not a throb; it's just a continuous groan or sigh that sits low in my back, behind my stomach, swallowing up my lower spine. It hugs my bone and nerves in every position; adjusting just sets off a spasm in my legs. Those are perhaps the most annoying. My muscles have lost their connection to the brain, but they still long to be at work. Nerves in my feet fire signals that get stuck below the injury resulting in violent shaking of my leg. Again, this isn't pain. It's freaking annoying, to be sure, but the sensation doesn't hurt. It unnerves. The muscles haven't moved much in four months, and as they begin to stretch, the constricted muscle fiber is fighting back, cramping and flexing at its own whim. Spasms ripple down my legs, unasked and unstoppable. I started talking to my legs a couple weeks ago. "Shhh, calm down," I tell them, "We're on the same team. Stop fighting against me." They never listen, but I refuse to consider them my enemies. They are prisoners of war exiled from communication with my brain from no fault of their own. 

The fault, dear Brutus, is in our stars. This is just the world we live in where legs lose communication with brains after vertebrae break. And it's a beautiful, wonderful world I love learning about. The universe is fascinating, and we'll perhaps only ever know 5% of what it has to offer in my lifetime (according to Hank Green we're at 4%). My accident might prevent me from exploring certain aspects of this glorious creation that you might get to see, but it's also a gift that gives me insight into things you could never imagine. 

Dr. Schaak taught me that the goal of literature is empathy. I don't pretend that these blogs are of high literary quality, but it's an expression of words, an attempt at relating an experience, an opportunity to share some of my understanding of the world in the hopes of encouraging you to see something new, to look for more from what you have, that you might share it with other humans who can't experience your unique life. What can you share with me? One of the most painful lessons I've had to learn as an introvert is that the human experience is deeply relational; some theologians connect this to the Trinity. 

Understanding that relational value, I'm inviting you into my story, I'm asking you to listen to me and send up positive thoughts, petition God as Father, Spirit, Son, and maybe make yourself a better human being as I try to as well.

When you form your prayers, if you decide to, please don't just pray for the pinprick to disappear. Pray that I'll listen to the shouts and whispers of my body and my soul and learn to understand them better. Please don't just pray that the ache would release it's unnerving hug, but pray that I'll be hugged by peace that comes from above. Please don't just pray that my leg tremors would go away (and that the medication reducing them could be stopped), but pray that my nerves would find passages to send the messages from my brain to my toes and everywhere in between.