It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.'
I do not agree. The wounds remain.
In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens.
But it is never gone.
Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy
Earlier this week, I headed into the hospital's GI Lab to provide procedural support for a pediatric patient. As I walked around the unit, I realized I had been there before. My memory was with a patient, but the patient was my husband, and we were there for an upper endoscopy and colonoscopy.
I'll admit that I hadn't thought about that day much since it occurred back in June 2019. But finding myself physically there, the many memories soon came flooding in. Standing next to the pre-op bay we once sat in, I could clearly picture talking to the nurse about his medical history and the array of ongoing symptoms, stressing my concerns with the anesthesiologist about the potential impact that sedation can have on people with neurological conditions, and waiting impatiently to see him after the procedure to make sure he didn't suffer any side effects from the medication. I also remember sitting in the hospital's meditation garden and saying a silent prayer, likely for an answer in the form of a diagnosis or inevitable end to the mounting problems.
But like so many of the other tests, the results were explained as "normal". While we were happy about the lack of a new chronic illness, there was also a shared disappointment that another test failed to provide any insight or guidance, the one thing we felt was needed the most.
When I think back on this time in my life, there is a momentary surrealness. I find myself having a difficult time really remembering what it was truly like while we were in the thick of our diagnosis chase. We were also first-time parents, living in the new glory of watching our little girl explore this world and beautifully recreate ours. Those memories remain, and are captured by adorable pictures and videos, but they are also clouded by the frustrations, pain, and sadness as this time held so many private struggles and personal challenges. I tracked every symptom and documented each situation that concerned me and appeared abnormal for my husband's true character. I was so hopeful and truly believed that things would get figured out.
I wonder if I was too naive in the first place, but what else was I supposed to do? I was in my early thirties and exploring my new roles as wife and mother. Then suddenly, chronic illness also became our everyday norm.
Overall, this chapter of my life is something that has proven to be impossible to forget and fully move on from. No matter how much time has passed, I can close my eyes tightly and remember all of these troubling moments so vividly.
But it does feel different now.
Maybe because over time, I have benefited from great healing, and a deep understanding that his health is something that I simply can't control, as the only thing I know about his ongoing struggles is that symptoms will always come-and-go, appearing as quickly and unexpectedly as they disappear. As confusing as it is, it's all very real, and I couldn't make any of this up if I tried.
Do I think I know his true diagnosis? Yes, I do.
And it is because I have had nine and half years of caring for my husband's struggles, the depth of it being something that no one else will ever know or understand, and just as much time spent learning about the diseases that can cause them.
Yet I still find it impossible to truly heal until I can be 100% honest and openly share just what we've faced along this journey.
But at this time, it's just not my place to do so because this story isn't only mine.
One day? I hope so. Because honestly, I feel more than ever that it's what I'm meant to do.
Maybe it's why all of this has happened in the first place, and I can use what we've been through to help others who know all too well just how life changing an illness like this can be on a person and their family.
But for now, I'll accept that this is part of my core memories, something that was meant to have a great impact on my life and serve as higher purpose.