I have a beautiful grandson.
He brings sunshine to the darkest days. When I go to my daughter’s home to visit or pick them up to go somewhere, he squeals loudly when he sees me walk in the door. He holds his arms out for me to take him.
To say I love him to the moon and back would almost be an understatement because I’m pretty sure I love him even more than that.
Tonight, I am in tremendous pain. This disease is taking its toll tonight on both my mind and my body. Specifically, tonight, my eyes feel like someone is inside my head stabbing my eyes with a fork over and over and over. The pain in my eyes, coupled with the echo of the doctor’s words in my head warning of the possibility of losing my vision, is driving fear deep into my mind. Living in a dark world of depression inside my own head is hard enough on a regular basis. The thought of living in a dark world physically, in addition to living in one emotionally, is just too much to take in. And one of the first faces that come to mind when I think of not being able to see is that of my beautiful grandson.
Please don’t misunderstand. There are many faces I would miss seeing should my vision be lost. I love my husband. I love my kids. I love my friends. The thing is, all of those people won’t change much. Of course, there will be some change, but, for the most part, I would remember the faces of those mentioned. My grandson, though, is just a baby. He will change very much in a short timeframe. I look back on pictures from just three months ago, and I am amazed at how different he looks. Additionally, I’m sure–I HOPE–there will be more grandchildren in my future. The thought of not being able to see them at all is heartbreaking.
It is that heartbreak, those thoughts, and the intense pain tonight that are compounding the fears that are looming large.
I read an article recently, written by someone with MS, that hit a nerve close to my heart. The author wrote about how, had she known the course her disease would take, she would have taken more time to enjoy the things that she no longer is able to enjoy. For her that includes walks in the woods–she is now in a wheelchair. It also included the freedom to drive a car and grocery shop–a chore she used to despise. I thought about the course this disease has taken in my life. I have seen many things with my eyes…babies, animals, mountains, flowers, sunsets, a few sunrises, corn fields, pumpkins, fall leaves, Christmas lights, sparkling snow, a dark sky illuminated by flashes of lightning, rainbows, harvest moons, stars, death, ocean waves, sandy beaches…the list could go on. I would like to think I always appreciated the things I have seen. The truth is, though, I often took them for granted. If I was up early enough to see a sunrise, I probably complained that I needed to be up that early. Flowers often brought complaints from my lips about the bees attracted. I didn’t complain about everything, but I know I also didn’t treasure the gift of all that I saw. As I face the possibility of losing the ability to see the world God created, I find myself sad, fearful, and wanting to soak it all in so if the day comes that I am unable to see, I will have images of the beauty around me burned into my mind.
I know that fear is not of God. I try to remember that God is in control, that He knows what He is doing. Remembering them, though, and living them out are not the same thing. Both are difficult, but the latter is definitely difficult to a greater degree.
Fear knocks louder than peace.
Fear demands all the attention.
Fear wants to paralyze, take me out of the game before the time is up.
Once again, with a weak grip, I cling to the promise that God has this all under control.