how healing begins

Imagine how many stories would emerge if everyone who was touched by the Covid-19 pandemic were to tell us what happened to them. We would be inundated with stories. Why would anyone want to hear yours? Because every one of them would be different.

"Everybody's got a different way 

of telling a story,

and has a different story to tell."

~Keith Richards~

Some people would tell us how sick they were, and what a relief it was when they started to feel better.

Others would describe how scared they were when their symptoms got worse and worse, until they had to go to the hospital. Some of them would tell us how frustrated and angry they were when they were denied admission...because the hospital was short on beds, staff, or PPE.

Some of them would explain how they feared for their life when they entered the intensive care unit and gave their consent for a medically induced coma and artificial ventilation. How worried they were they would never see their loved ones again. 

We would hear from men and women who lost their jobs or had to close their businesses. From parents who had to home school their children while working at full-time jobs from home. Grandparents would tell us how it broke their hearts not to be able to see their grandchildren. The list goes on.

"Tell the story of the mountain 

you climbed.

Your words could be a page

in someone else's survival guide."

~Morgan Harper Nichols~.

My story would have to do with the fact that I'm a physician, meaning I am fully qualified and capable of joining my colleagues on the front lines in the fight against this invisible enemy...except for one problem. I'm also a member of the high-risk population, so I can't help at all. 

Despite a compelling sense of duty, of urgency, of longing to pitch in, I have been banished. I’m not welcome among my colleagues and friends, men and women who are hard at work saving lives in the hospital where I practiced medicine for over thirty years. I'm used to being on the care-giving side of the equation, not the receiving end, so I feel guilty because I can’t do my part to care for patients, and to support my colleagues. I feel helpless. Useless. Broken.

That said, not much else has changed for me over the past few months. I retired a couple of years ago, and I live alone, so I’m comfortable with the idea of social distancing. I appreciate solitude, so isolation doesn’t scare me. I've managed to tackle a few jobs around the house that I’ve been putting off. I’ve been reading through the stack of books that has been collecting dust in the back of my closet for years. I’m learning to meditate. Trying to write. Doing what introverts and loners do best, living quietly and peacefully. Enjoying solitude, embracing uncertainty, and holding onto hope.

Which, I believe, is how healing begins.

"There are so many stories

more beautiful than answers."

~Mary Oliver~

When this is over, we will all have stories to tell. Tales of triumph and loss. Tales of courage and fear. Stories of discovery. Messages of hope. 

What story will you tell? When will you start?

"Tell your story with your 

whole heart."

~Brene Brown~

jan