What Eyes Have Not Seen
This summer brought an unusual gift: a month long, grueling spell of vertigo, when I couldn't close my eyes or sleep because of the intensity of the dizziness, whose severity, peace and blessings be upon it, sent me to a specialist, seeking relief and understanding.
A few days later I sat in his chair, receiving the first of a series of steroid injections into my eardrums, what we hoped would help the vertigo subside.
I never thought I'd say yes to something like this. The week before I'd said yes to one more medication, one we hoped would ease the vertigo, and one the pharmacist warned - this might cause an allergic reaction. I cried that day in the parking lot. I didn't know if I could manage hives on top of everything else.
That day, as I saw the needle that would go into my ear, I trembled in the doctor's chair. I felt so worried - steroids?! What about side effects? And yet illness and pain had left me helpless and naked. They stripped away my resistance and any pride about, "I won't take that medicine. I won't do that procedure." A friend gently reminded me, "Western medicine has so much to offer." Her words helped me take the anti-nausea medicine that was, indeed, a miracle, and left me weeping that such mercy was available to me. How could a medication make roiling nausea go away in less than a minute? And yet it did.
In the worst of the pain, I found refuge in my breath. Through the long nights I discovered that each inhale gave me a split second of relief that helped me through the pain, pain I worried would never end, pain I worried I couldn't handle. And through that pain, I was opened: I felt connected to every other human being navigating life through a vulnerable, mortal body. I understood the complexity and humility of navigating a health crisis - how you make the best decisions you can with the information you have available, and how much you have to depend on those who are caring for you, trusting that they're doing the best they can, too. I felt, in the cleaving sword of pain, how much of life is not in your control. Which was also the most extraordinary relief.
I was home the next day, brushing my teeth, when this poem came to meet me. The words came so fast it was all I could do to find pen and paper and write them down before whoosh, they fell away into the ether.
What is it that opens us in this way? Where does this opening, these words come? I don't know. It's a mystery I continue to surrender to.
As I wrote, my story blended with other stories - my friend's eye disease, another's knee surgery - to create an ode to the body's vulnerability. After writing her, I shared the poem with my dear friend El in her final weeks with cancer. We basked in this tender time, and the feel of the poem together. She died yesterday.
I hope to never forget the clarity, the pall that came over me that day - sinking deeper and deeper into the humility and grace of being a vulnerable human being, the rest that's found there, and the mercy of putting your tender body - your body so afraid of being hurt - into the hands of others.
I pray my heart stays soft. I pray to remember. I bow and remember El, and the moments we shared together.
What Eyes Have Not Seen
When you were young and healthy you didn't know
the future that lay before you, the rows of pills on
the kitchen counter, the diaper pads on the sink,
favorite foods that would live in the past. You'd hoped
that if you ran on city streets, studied hard and didn't
drink you could create a future without frailty, free
of pain. You couldn't see how someday you'd sit
in a doctor's chair as he prepared to insert a needle
into your eardrum, your eye, your knee. You didn't
know you'd squeeze the nurse's hand and pray to God,
the saints, your friends as the long tip pierced the soft
skin of your body. You were virgin, not yet touched.
You didn't yet know how great pain could become
your teacher as much as great love until you couldn't
tell the difference between the two. You hadn't yet heard
that this is the human journey we share, no matter
how often you eat kale or take your vitamins. You
couldn't foresee how you'd fall in love with your breath,
with your beautiful, broken body, with the scientist
who makes the pill that makes the pain bearable. You
didn't know you'd squint to read the box of the
anti-nausea medicine and see the list of others who
need the small white circle: a woman gnawed
by cancer, an elderly man, wheeling into surgery,
a young teen, broken by migraines. You didn't know
you'd bow your head and say: I'm sorry, thank you,
we're not alone.
If you appreciate receiving the poems of O Nobly Born, I'd love your financial support. You can make a $10 donation here by credit card or a donation of any amount through paypal - paypal@growinghumankindness.com. I cherish every donation, as they support my work and enable me to offer these poems freely to all. This particular poem is one that many have asked if they can share. Yes, please share her freely, especially in honor of my dear El.
With a grateful heart, Karly