The hope of spring

 Easter has come and gone, but I’m still stuck in the early afternoon of Good Friday. I mention that because I do love the Easter season and the liturgy that goes with it. For years, starting when I was a teenager, Lent meant being involved in the dramatization of the Gospels John 4; 9 and 11 (The Woman at the Well; Healing the Man Born Blind and Raising Lazarus from the Tomb) followed by the reenactment of the Way of the Cross.  It was a Lenten journey that we lived through culminating in the death and burial of Jesus, and then rejoicing in the resurrection on Easter Sunday morning. Good Friday’s focus on the suffering and death of Jesus was always cathartic before the joyful resurrection.

This year, though, has been challenging.  There is the ongoing Lent of the pandemic and the recurrent lockdowns, which has its own element of fasting involved in it.  I haven’t seen or hugged my friends in over a year, and that has been very hard!  Plus the loss of my other activities... and then, since late February, I’ve had horrific back pain that has resisted my doctors attempts to treat.  It’s been going on so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to move freely, or to sleep comfortably or even to sit and relax.  It’s sufficiently severe that walking, even the short distance from the bed to the bathroom, is agony; that I can’t lie flat and I can really only sleep for short periods between being woken up with stabbing agony.  We have, thankfully, eliminated fractures or bone problems as a cause, and we have adjusted my medication several times so it’s now persistent but reduced in intensity from its earlier torment.

Which is why I described my state as “early afternoon of Good Friday” where the pain must have been at its worst, before the release of death and where suffering was most visible to everyone around.    I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating the nature of pain and suffering, because — well, what else would I do?  It is so entwined into human experience that every single religion and society talks of suffering and what it means.  The word originates from the Latin for “to allow”, which has a very different interpretation from what we interpret it to mean.  We fight against suffering, we work towards its elimination.  But to “allow” suffering?  To go into it, and let ourselves learn from it?  Very troubling imagery!  

But then, that’s largely what I’ve had to do for the last few months.  Months!  I can’t stop the pain.  I can’t avoid it.  It’s my constant companion, throbbing from the time I wake in the morning, cycling through every possible descriptor, from burning, to stabbing, to excruciating until I pass out, overcome by opiates, muscle relaxants and analgesics for a few minutes of relief before it restarts.  It has changed how I move through the day, trying to do necessary activities like eating (Oh, you don’t understand how back pain affects eating?  Well, the pain can radiate up so that opening my mouth requires physical effort, and chewing sends stabs down my neck), or bathing, or (dreadful thought!) bending down to pick up something that’s fallen on the floor... or petting the dog.  If I fight against the pain, it can make me lock up, so I can’t breathe easily.  So I’ve learnt, gradually and ungraciously, to accept that I should not force myself to do something if my body is screaming.  That “one big thing” could be sitting in the car on the way to a hospital appointment, and once I’m back home, to relax in a chair or try to find a comfortable way to lie down and doze off for a while.  To not feel guilty about ordering delivery for the second time in a week, because cooking would take more energy and effort than I have available.

I also realized that even in my suffering that I am blessed, or privileged, depending on your perspective.  I have a team of doctors who are very caring and responsive, and who have been attentive to my needs.  I have access to a pharmacy that delivers medications, and have insurance that reduces the costs of my meds.  Plus a support system that provides help to me with home care nurses and access to other professionals.  So I can suffer in relative comfort, as oxymoronic as that sounds!  I don’t have to struggle with getting to and from a workplace, or with coping with transportation or anything severe.  I’m able, then, to pray free from interruptions and to contemplate some of the sufferings of Good Friday.  I don’t even begin to compare my pain to that of being crucified, but I do understand a little better what it’s like to be in constant pain.  I realize that without the supports that I do have, my pain could be significantly worse, but I will be kinder towards those who do suffer.  

After the sadness of Good Friday there’s the joy of Easter Sunday. I’ve repeated that a few times now... because I need to emphasize that suffering is not the end of existence, just a step along the path.  Like the disciples on that Friday, I can’t see beyond the pain right now.  I trust and believe that it is there, and that I, too, will achieve that glorious day.  It’s hard to look up from this place, and even to imagine that there’s a way out, and perhaps I’m wrong to think that there’s a way through this.  Maybe this is how my life goes from now on, and I need to adjust to living in pain?  I don’t know.  But I will continue to have faith that this is not my path, that there is relief from the suffering, and that I will be able to do some good for others.

Perhaps I can still be an Easter person, and help others reach for the goodness of people?