I liken my body and mind to a spaceship. Not one all sleek and shiny and new and well-engineered. My spaceship looks like the hillbillies. Rusty and dented and old and engineered with duct tape. I need plenty of space to take off and land and navigate everything in between. My spaceship is rickety and noisy and overheats regularly.
It’s a Herculean task even to hold onto the madly vibrating controls, let alone steer the thing. The windshield is foggy and pebbled. Sometimes friends help guide my ship when I am unable. They also help with maintenance, which also is often too big for me. Eternal thanks is my contribution.
The controls consist of lots of buttons and dials. When I push a button I hope the something I want to happen does, but that’s not always so. Sometimes things go on when I want them off and vice versa. Sometimes the dials get stuck, the screens freeze and crash, and I’m left relying on my instinct, which hopefully is not also defective.
It would be tempting to leave me in the corner of the junkyard, but even without all the strength and frills others easily enjoy, I still believe I am valuable. At least that part’s not broken.
Fran
Your spaceship analogy is one of many ways in which you have conveyed to me aspects of your life with illness, Fran. Your ability to do that -- not just with me but many others too -- is incredibly valuable in itself, because it opens the door to understanding. ~Marty
ReplyDelete