Monday, Monday. Can’t trust that day, they warned,
when it was really Wednesday I should’ve been watching out for.
I remember the moment the plot twist hit: there I was, flat on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling, barely able to move, mumbling bits of prayer like they were going out of style.
Rewind a bit. We had just wrapped up filming the latest in a series of faith-based courses we’d been working on for more than a year. Time to pack up the gear and tear down the set.
The team noticed I was struggling and kindly suggested I head out early, but we’re a tiny team, and I hate leaving before everything’s done. I thought maybe I could outlast this annoying headache that had been hanging around for weeks. Big mistake.
The drive home was a nightmare, traffic stretching for what seemed like days. When I finally stumbled in, Suzanne took one look at me and escorted me straight to bed. There, I muttered “patience and understanding” over and over—two words that had been playing on repeat for days. Maybe if I repeated it enough, I’d magically become patient and understanding? But, truth be told, the only thing I understood was that I wasn’t feeling very patient.
You see, I thought “understanding” meant at least a diagnosis, something solid to work with. But instead, this illness—which was still nameless two years later—felt like an inconvenient mistake, an interruption I wasn’t prepared for. How could it possibly be helpful, and when would I get back to doing the work I love?
Then came the plot twist:
“This is no mistake.”
“But what about all my projects?”
“You. You’re the project.”
[Cue dramatic music.]
Not exactly the answer I wanted, but it’s the one I got. The two years after Whammy Wednesday have been a whirlwind of appointments, tests, and a lot of new medication. I’ve had my share of dark days, but I remind myself that others have gone through far worse—and they do it with grace. I’ve developed a lot of compassion for anyone struggling in any way. Sometimes, just showing up is enough. Here’s to those who show up, no matter what.
I’m lucky to be surrounded by so many kind people—whether it’s a prayer, a card, a home-cooked meal, or Suzanne breaking the seal on my Gatorade bottle that’s impossible to open unless you’re a professional athlete. Or Suzanne. Even my mom, with her achy hip and back, would walk with me around the block, pretending she’s steadying me when it’s really the other way around. Humbling, yes, but apparently, humility is another course unit.
I don’t know how this chapter ends or how long it will last, but most days I wake up, I sit up, and while I wait for the room to stop spinning, I recommit to following wherever this takes me. Other days, it’s all I can do to just keep going. Who knows what comes out the other side?
Your friend,
Eugene