silence

photo source

Winter has arrived. I love the cold sharp air, the wet piles of autumn leaves, and the dark cosy evenings cuddled up with Ben and our book. I remember last winter so clearly – from the beginning of the cold days to very end, my immune system fought hard and lost in the battle against viruses. I went from virus to virus with barely a week of ‘normality’ in between; at one stage I even had bronchitis. Instead of just feeling awful from CFS/POTS, I had on top of that the weakness that comes from a body putting all its reserves into fighting evil lurgys, and spent a lot of time in bed. A normal cold in my weak and sickly body plays out as a full blown flu. I feel like crying as I write this – since the chilly days arrived a month ago, I have been sick with a virus and I fear that I will spend another winter in the darkness of ‘double-illness’. My doctor says there’s nothing I can do, and my blood tests show my typical swollen liver as it battles away. I have to wait, and stand aside as it flails around desperately trying to kill off the intruders. There’s a helpless feeling as I think about the coming months, and my weak immune system. Another winter in the home as I sleep, play my flute, knit, write, and generally try to keep my spirits up in the wilderness of feeling unwell. I know that if I take it one day at a time I will make it, sometimes half days is the only way to get through.

Do not worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Sometimes I just cry. The thing I love about Ben is that he never asks me why. He knows. He knows that life is hard, and that words can never do justice to the feelings which dwell deep down. Each tear encapsulates a thought – fear, frustration, hope, longing, sadness, wonder, confusion, pain, and dreams put aside. The silence and the tears say more than I could ever offer in a book of my thoughts. He doesn’t even try to cheer me up, say something to ‘help’ or tell me to keep my chin up. There is a point where words are useless, and his arms and silence are the greatest comfort.

I wonder as I’m going to see a friend what I can say to help. And then I remember that just being there, and being an ear is all that is needed at times. Why do I think that I need to have something profound to say, when I know so well that human presence means the most? When I know that trickling tears are not solvable with floods of words?