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A few weeks ago at Eatzi’s, I bumped into my friend Donna, who has a brain tumor. My husband had planned a Sunday gathering with friends (translation: he invited friends over and I got to plan everything). After a few minutes of snarling under my breath, I decided to not be mad, not to cook and just pick up fun food at Eatzi’s.
I entered the store to be met with clear voice of a tenor and tasty samples of Thanksgiving sweet potatoes and stuffing. Then, I saw Donna. She told me she felt lucky. The surgeon removed most of the tumor in a risky operation that might have left her dead, blind or with facial paralysis. Her struggles weren’t over; they could not remove all of the tumor. This growth within her head was something she’d have to monitor and manage. Yet somehow, she’d found new purpose in comforting people who had brain tumors. Her brown eyes widened with joy as she posed the question: “Do you ever consider your disease a blessing?”
Five years ago, if you asked me this question, I would have answered with a definitive NO. This summer’s relapse, only six months after the previous relapse, burdened me. I wore a weird cloak of embarrassed/defeated rage. In January I’d defiantly stood down one young psychiatrist who insisted I needed more electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). They suggested 12-18 treatments, I insisted 6 would do. Our conversation went like this:
Me: “This is ridiculous, of you look at my personal history, this is way too much ECT! I had five treatments in 2001 and seven in 2007!”
DR: “Our statistics show that more ECT leads to better results.”
ME: “I also know most ECT patients relapse in 6 months.”
DR: “Not MY patients.”
ME: “Do you have any patients who stayed well eight years at at time?”
DR: “Well, I haven’t been practicing medicine that long.”
ME: “When you have patients who have stayed well as long as I have, then I’ll listen to you, until then I suggest you might learn something from me.”
I strutted out of her office, chest out, SURE I would never be sick again.
When I lay on the gurney to receive ECT less than six months later, this same psychiatrist administered the treatment. “Well, this is embarrassing,” I relented. She smiled, no I told you so lurking at the corners of her lipstick.
“I just want to see you well,” she said.
Once again, I’ve sprinted back to wellness, my ability to bounce back lending credence to the idea that God only gives us what we can handle. As I relish my wellness, my friend Donna’s question stuck with me. What can I be grateful for in another depressive break?
Without much thought, a few things spring to mind. Early this summer, before my depression tipped off, I spoke at Dallas Black Dance Theater on mental wellness.
To encourage attentiveness, I gave the students (ages 8-16) an incentive. Any student who created his or her own list for mental wellness would be put in a raffle to see “Dream Girls” at the Dallas Theater Center. One precocious student asked “But I can’t drive, could you give me a ticket for my mom too?” How could I resist that?
Between this talk and “Dream Girls” my depression raised its head. I like to think of myself as a connector, one who moves easily between groups, hopefully to inspire one side to listen to another. I have friends who are liberal, conservative, gay, straight, all colors and shapes. This summer, the gaps between these groups grew so large I fell into the caverns between them.
The events hit like gunfire. The Orlando shootings. I went to a conference in DC where members were asked to join an affinity group of those only like them – something in my life experience that only seems to leads to divisiveness (but old people in theater wasn’t an affinity group!). Then, the Dallas shootings. Then, the political campaign.
In the middle of all this anger and disunion, a young woman named Mariah stepped into my life. Mariah, a young dancer at DBDT was one of the “Dream Girls” winners.
Her dad, dressed in a sharp suit and a fedora with a stylish feather, sat next to her at the show. He told me how his wife Cam let him come because he liked “Dream Girls” so much. They were so grateful, I told them I wanted to give another set of tickets so he and his wife could have a date night.
Cam called me a few days later and told me she and Mariah wanted to take me out for Paciugo. We met, Mariah showing me her journal that she kept. The messages she told herself stick out in my mind “I am ME. . .I am specially made to be ME. . .I am Precious and Priceless. . .I thank God for me. . .”
I remember a good friend telling me once that his job as a parent was making sure his kid’s tank was full. There are good times and bad times in all of our lives. You fill up your child’s tank so s/he can navigate the rough stuff.
Mariah’s tank, thanks to her mom and dad, was filled to the brim. I happened to see Mariah and her family again recently at another performance at Dallas Black Dance Theater. Cam told me that she’d been thinking about me, praying for me.
This family’s effort to say thanks buoyed me during a particularly hard time. I remember telling Mariah, not all white people are angry and mean, please remember that. She looked at me with eyes of pure love.
Would I have appreciated the Kemps so much without a broken heart? I doubt it. In my vulnerability, a space for friendship opened. I also know without my illness, I would not have been able to see, once again, an outpouring of care and compassion from my family and husband. And this time, my children, now adults, showed a level of loyalty, strength and sensitivity that I suspected they had, but had not been put to the test.
Am I grateful for this relapse? Donna, that’s a strange question, but I have to say YES. I feel blessed. Sometimes only our worst moments can reveal the most brilliant miracles.
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Holidays to all!
For more information about Julie Hersh or Struck by Living, check out the Struck by Living website.
