Things that seem related but aren’t:
Today I went to the hospital about my eyes for the 5th time. It’s been a surprising constant over six months that have turned upside down in virtually every other way. Ever since I started experiencing blurry vision in September, the pattern has been the same: go to the hospital (or GP, or eye doctor), have them tell me I’m suffering from (dry eyes, an infection, something else), attempt to figure out why (with a diagnosis that always changes), and prescribe me different eye drops.
They couldn’t figure it out. An infection? Contacts? A reaction to preservatives?
8 doctors, 8 different ideas, each with their own favorite eye drops.
Meanwhile, the rug felt like it was being pulled out from under me. Work stopped going well. The people I built my life around at Oxford left. My relationship was in tatters. My body was failing me, with separate trips to the hospital for a broken nose and also some scary tests that, with hindsight, don’t seem like such a big deal but definitely were at the time.
I spent much of the last six months angry, first with God, and later with people that I love. Obsessing with the endings, as everything around me seemed to be taken away.
Today, I walked into the hospital, saw the eye doctor. He looked through my charts and got my story. Then he looked in my eyes. I was fine. There were no pock marks on my eyes. My eyes had healed themselves.
They never figured out what it was. Never got the diagnosis correct. But given enough time, I was able to heal.
And I can’t help but see it as a little invitation. To stop obsessing about the endings. To start to lift my eyes towards the beginnings and opportunities in front of me.
I don’t have to know what went wrong. Enough time can heal.