I’m sick these days. Recently diagnosed with Adrenal Insufficiency (as a result of the pituitary tumor and its subsequent hemorrhaging and removal), I feel like my health is going in the wrong direction. I’m tired (bone-tired), shaky inside and out, unable to focus for very long, and generally just feeling yucky, some days way worse than others. Today is a bad day, even though I look fine, good in fact according to my daughter. The doctors are doing their best, but this isn’t a common disease, so I think a lot of treatment is hit or miss, trial and error, like throwing darts at a dartboard.
I’m the dartboard.
Which brings me to the topic of sainthood. I know there are a number of steps to get to sainthood, likely involving miracles (minimum of two) and some belief in said miracles as well as a heartfelt commitment to virtue and servitude. And, of course, you need to be dead. That seems like a lot. Personally, I think saint status should be conferred on spouses of perpetually sick and whiney people. People like my husband, who continues to amaze me with his patience and kindness. I got lucky.
I continue to be lucky, every day I’m here. In every way.
Nancy Wiley writes. 