This fall I’m approaching my two-year headache-versary. Almost exactly two years ago, I had to go on disability leave due to a headache that has still yet to end, and a heaping helping of chronic migraines added for good measure. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the beginning of the end. The pain would get worse, my anxiety was through the roof, and eventually I’d have to quit the job I loved. It was a gradual losing of control and of everything I had worked towards. It was a slow and painful fall away from my hopes and dreams. This time last year was admittedly more painful than now, as the wounds were still so fresh. I’d like to say that I’m able to handle the grief more graciously this time around because I’ve had a year to grow in wisdom, maturity, and acceptance. But more likely I think it’s just easier because the passage of time numbs me. The more time passes, the more my past headache-free days simply feel like a different life, a distant memory, and that makes it a little easier not to dwell so much.
Still, this time of year hurts. Last night, I was moving boxes to my new home. In one of them was my eighth grade yearbook, so naturally I had to take a look. On one page, all the eighth graders had a baby picture next to a short description of where we saw ourselves in the year 2020. My future goals were just about as ridiculous as my peers’: I’d be a famous author living in Italy, married to my crush from American Idol (Ok, mostly it’s just that last part that’s ridiculous). While it was funny and I always love feeling nostalgic, it didn’t come without a twinge of pain. After laughing with my husband, I said, “Obviously this was just a fantasy I never took seriously, even back then. Still, I never knew that in reality, my future would would mostly just include living in moderate to severe physical pain every single day.”
Today Facebook reminded me of something I wrote three years ago. At the time, I had just began working a new teaching job at a Catholic school, and I absolutely loved every minute of it. The kids were phenomenal, the staff was supportive, and it was just an incredible environment to feel productive while growing in my relationship with Christ. My Facebook status was complaining (in a jokey way) about all the extra work and responsibilities I was assigned. I actually remember typing that status. I wasn’t legitimately upset about all the things I had to do. On the contrary, I was excited. I felt honored that the principal had entrusted me with important duties and just happy to be useful and a part of a community. (Maybe that sounds cheesy, but it’s true. The previous year I had been working in a very difficult environment, and this was an incredible change). Of course, I felt another twinge of pain. I am hopelessly jealous of my 23-year old self, a person who gets to be useful and work a job she loves.
As much as I enjoyed that job and that life, it’s not like I didn't have challenges back then. However, I still felt such a strong sense of purpose; I was moving forward.It’s not that I expect life to always be smooth sailing, but I don’t understand why God had to replace the occasional rough wave in my life with a ceaseless hurricane. The challenges I faced were at least productive challenges, not just constant pain that can make just cooking dinner the hugest chore. I was doing good work at that school. Why did God take me away from my vocation as a teacher? I had worked hard for this in college, and after a terrible first year at an inner-city school, this was finally my reward for toughing it out. Yet, my dreams and sense of purpose were all yanked out from underneath my feet. And that was that. Regardless of my ceaseless efforts, I have yet to get it back.
I’m bitter, obviously. The memories can feel even worse than the migraines. However, the advantage to having one more year under my belt is the recognition that I’m one more year into a different journey. Although it feels like my life was over once my migraines squashed my dreams, that obviously isn’t so. For better or for worse, I’ve had two years now of not being a teacher, of a constant headache, of my lungs pumping oxygen, and of me, somehow, figuring out how to keep going on. This morning when I was chopping vegetables, it sort of dawned on me that regardless of how intensely my heart clings to the past, the rest of me has moved forward. It’s not that my path ended; it just took an unexpected turn.
Tonight, I took these usual grievances in with me to adoration. I imagine every time I meet Jesus in the monstrance, He thinks: “Ah, yes. Here comes my daughter once more to complain, to dwell on her past, to beg for the headaches to stop, and to ask me why she can’t have the life she once had.” Although lately, it’s gotten to the point where I don’t even feel like I have to think through my every sad and frustrated thought anymore. Instead of coming in with a long list of petitions and complaints, I often just stare at the Eucharist, recognizing that God already knows and embraces all of me, including the doubt, regret, and anger I must radiate.
There’s also just something powerful about the very essence of adoration. As Christians, we’re constantly being told to “Fix our eyes on Jesus.” While this is typically meant metaphorically, in adoration we get to literally do just that. In this small yet mighty way, my looking at Jesus in the Eucharist, with a dull throb in my head and fatigue in my bones, is a metaphor for my entire life.
It dawned on me that my problem-- and probably everyone’s problem, is that we are too focused on the path, and not the destination. Jesus didn’t redeem all of mankind in spite of his death on the cross; he chose to redeem all of mankind through his death on the cross. Focusing on our own suffering without keeping our eyes on Heaven would be like dwelling on the crucifixion without celebrating the beauty and wonder that shortly followed.
It also dawned on me that, of course, Jesus has chosen this particular path for me (and no amount of kicking and screaming is going to change that). There’s a lot to be said about wrong turns I’ve taken in life. I’m sure many times I’ve unknowingly dodged God’s path for me, and he’s probably had to recalibrate his plans a gajillion times because I keep messing it up. The thing about the chronic pain is that it has truly been totally out of my control. I didn’t choose the pain two years ago, and I sure as heck don’t choose it today… but God chose it (and continues to choose it). So in this weird way, it’s actually a wonderful thing that I didn’t choose to live in pain because then that really it means it must be God’s will for my life right now. Like this is the one thing I can’t mess up because I simply lack the control and therefore, I also lack the ability to mess it up. I’ve been living my life thinking, “UGH! The physical pain is the one thing in my life I have no control over,” when really maybe I should be thinking, “Thank God I have one thing in my life that is truly in God’s control and not my own!”
It’s entirely possible that my potential future as a Catholic school teacher is the second best plan for getting me to Heaven. Heck, it’s even possible that my 8th grade’s dream future of being married to an American Idol rockstar is the third best plan. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. Jesus chose this path of physical suffering for me, which automatically makes it the winner. It’s okay to be sad I can’t teach. It’s okay for me to mourn the lost of my dreams. However, I still must recognize Christ’s dreams for me are much greater than my own. Christ isn’t just focused on the path. He’s not just focused me being able to work a job I enjoy and live the life I want to. He’s focused on the destination: meeting me in Heaven. And regardless of whether I can understand it right now or not, He has chosen the path of perpetual headaches and chronic migraines. When I visit Jesus in Eucharistic adoration, I complain relentlessly about all the pain I’ve had to endure. But when I meet Him in Heaven, I’m sure I’d much rather thank Him for using His best plan to get me there.
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