Unwell

Learning to accept care

Being sick reveals my insecurities. They tell me that when I am sick, I am useless. And when I am useless, I can’t possibly be loved.

Covid found me again after nearly four years. I was one of the early cases in March 2020, a casualty of the initial strain in New York. My friends and I knew we had it based on our symptoms. The antibodies showed up that summer and my loss of taste lingered through the fall.

Tests didn’t exist back then, so this was my first positive. The line so faint I had to double check it with a photo.

One reason I’m bad at being sick is that I tend to moralize it. Why me. Why now.

I was supposed to assist with a friend’s chemo treatment. I was supposed to make progress on some work. Instead, I am useless. And when I am useless, I can’t possibly be loved.

Alone on the frozen sea. Nome, Alaska, April 2023.

There is egotism in thinking that my needs are embarrassing while recognizing the validity of others’. In thinking that my friends don’t actually want to help me despite my willingness to help them.

I am brave in so many ways except this. I lack the courage to ask for help and trust (yes, trust) that what is given comes from love more than from pity.

Help me, I say, as I transform into a crying child. Help me. Help me. I need your help.

My insecurities tell me that when I am sick, I am weak. I lack the energy to fight. I lack the energy to impress and beguile and charm.

Without that energy, no one will remember me. I will emerge days or weeks later only to learn that everyone has moved on.

Egotism masks self-doubt. The Void, as Carrot calls it. The place so hungry for love that we think it can never be filled.

I take a walk downstairs. I make some tea and clear the table. I turn and there she is, standing in the doorway. The crying child.

The child looks at me. Help me, she says. Help me. I need your help.

Hey, I say. Hey. I’m here.

I step forward and reach out my hand. She takes it and leans on my leg. Slowly her little body stops heaving.

She looks up at me again and I see the tears start to dry on her cheeks.

Are you hungry? I say. Her eyes widen and she sticks her thumb in her mouth. Well, I’m usually hungry, I say. I bring her to the table and pull a box of crackers from the shelf. Here, I say. Let’s eat.

I hand her some crackers and we munch them in silence. I pour glasses of water and we drink that, too.

She leans into me again and I notice her breathing soften. She falls asleep against my arm.

In this moment I feel how lucky we are. Alive and together. As brave as a crying child who learns to ask for help. And as brave as that child (or is she a woman?) who finally learns to accept it.