You are not forgotten. How powerful four words can be.
They tell us that we are still part of the world; that our lives matter; that we are held in the hearts of those who know us, even when we cannot physically be present.
This knowledge matters greatly in the isolation of illness, when it can feel as though our tears are shed into a void. To be ill is to mourn the person we once were, and all we might yet have been. But this often happens against the backdrop of a world that scarcely seems to register our absence.
The passing of the years has given me a greater perspective, however. I’ve come to understand that what can look like a lack of caring is often paralysis in the face of suffering. Society in general is not equipped to cope when someone falls seriously ill and never gets better. In the same way that the newly bereaved might be shunned because of their proximity to mortality, so we chronically ill provide an uncomfortable reminder of all that cannot be controlled, and all that cannot be put right.
It is, of course, important to remember that other people carry their own burdens, often unseen. It’s why I always try to remind those I love that I care. I know that it’s often the simplest words that have meant the most to me in my need. The sincere enquiry as to how I am. The gentle acknowledgment that I have lived through something huge. An old school teacher recently messaged me and told me that she was devastated when I fell ill. Knowing that the loss of me was felt beyond my immediate family means a lot: I didn’t just vanish unnoticed.
To be ill is to mourn the person we once were, and all we might yet have been
Over the years, gestures of love from friends and family have been beacons in my darkness. Right up until she died, my grandmother would send flowers from her garden through the post. My best friend from school, although only a teenager herself, faithfully visited through the years when I couldn’t open my eyes or speak. More recently I was touched to learn that my old piano teacher had kept the first piece of writing that I did after my worst years of illness. And there is a family friend, not seen since childhood, who reads and comments on every one of my posts here. What these people have given me is the gift of being remembered and being valued.
I am writing this on the eve of ME Awareness Week, a point in the year where many of us feel more forgotten than ever. Precious resources are directed outwards towards a world that can appear indifferent at best and uncaring at worst. It’s one of the reasons why I no longer actively engage in attempts to raise awareness.
But something unexpected happened this week, and reminded me that people think about us more than might often be apparent.
It’s often the simplest words that have meant the most to me in my need. The sincere enquiry as to how I am. The gentle acknowledgment that I have lived through something huge
I received an email from an 80-year-old gentleman in California who first contacted me several years ago. John has no personal connection to ME, but somehow discovered A Life Hidden and has messaged me several times in support – a rarity indeed.
This week he told me that he’d attempted to send me a gift: dried persimmons, walnuts and cherries, all grown and processed in his own orchard, along with apricots from a neighbouring farm. Upon reaching the post office, however, he was informed that customs regulations prohibited him from posting them to the UK.
Instead he sent me a photograph of the fruit, along with the message: “I send this note and photo to you, to let you know that you are not forgotten. Certainly, there are other people around the world who keep you in their thoughts and prayers, just like I do.”
No matter how isolated you might be, you are inextricably connected to the rest of humanity in ways you can’t fully imagine
The gift may never have reached me, but the kindness and compassion behind it did. It’s a reminder that we never truly know how far our lives reach, or how we touch the wider world. What is (or isn’t) reflected back to us is not always an accurate indication of our worth.
I hope you have someone in your life to remind you that you are not forgotten, and to let you know that, no matter how isolated you might be, you are inextricably connected to the rest of humanity in ways you can’t fully imagine. This is true irrespective of your presence in either the real or online world.
If this ME awareness week feels heavy, as it is accustomed to do, remember that a stranger thousands of miles away cared enough to harvest fruit from his orchard and send it as a gift. I dedicate it to everyone struggling today, for whatever reason: You are not forgotten.
Image credits and descriptions:
Main image: A black and white image of one hand gently holding another. Alex Sheldon on Unsplash
Other image: Dried fruit and nuts sealed up in plastic bags ready for posting. Courtesy of John Ivancovich
A Life Hidden 