Letting Our Bodies Do What They Do

from the archives: "I'm Shingling."

Dear Blue Roomies,

I’m away this week for the annual gathering of my clergy group. Today, I’m re-sharing a popular post from a year ago, about something that happened that week. We’ll hope history doesn’t repeat itself, but if it does, this perspective will help. Take care and see you next week!
-MAMD

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Recently I shared an experience in which I got baptized. 

Well, a second notable thing happened that morning. At the end of the worship service, a woman I’d never met came through the greeting line and let me know that she was hoping to pray with a pastor. We sat on a back pew in the mostly empty sanctuary and she shakily told me about her life. I offered up some words of prayer, and when I finished, she proceeded to pray for me, an unexpected grace. Taken together, these twin events of “baptism” and prayer reminded me that while pastors are leaders in their congregations, we are called to be servant-leaders, receiving as much as (or sometimes more than) we give. 

That afternoon I got on a plane for preacher camp with treasured friends, a week of fun and friendship in that same vein of mutuality: lots of listening and being listened to, laughing and (some) crying together, commiseration, singing, studying, sharing of WTF ministry moments, and more. It’s a boisterous, relaxing time. 

On Wednesday evening of preacher camp, I started developing a few dots of rash on my forehead above my left eye. At first I assumed it was menopausal acne, but it gradually got worse. By the time I flew home Friday I’d convinced myself it was a patch of eczema. I put some of Robert’s prescription-strength lotion on it and didn’t think any more about it.

Saturday morning it was no better. As I weighed the merits of consulting Dr. Google (terrible bedside manner; always suggesting the most dire outcome), it slowly dawned on me: This rash doesn’t itch. It… hurts. My heart sank, knowing what that meant. Robert had just gotten on a plane for San Diego, so I drove myself to urgent care. It was a long wait for a short appointment. The nurse practitioner walked in, took one look at my face and said, “Did you have chickenpox as a child?” Sigh.

Shingles. 

For the uninitiated: after you recover from the chickenpox, the virus remains in your body for the rest of your life. At moments when the immune system is weak, the virus can kick into gear, traveling along the nerves, those below-ground cables we mostly think nothing about, until. At its worst, my shingles rash (and accompanying pain) progressed from my forehead down to the side of my face, spreading to the scar from when I had a mole removed two years ago. Like a lightning strike finding its quickest path to ground, it sought out the newest, most vulnerable patch of skin on my face. I’m thankful it bypassed the eye, at least. Shingles rashes often sprout up on the torso, easily masked with clothing, but there was no hiding mine. I sported a bandaid above my eyebrow for days on end, inviting caring questions and sympathy. 
No, I hadn’t gotten around to the vaccine yet. 
Yes, you’re right, I’m pretty young to have gotten this. 
They say that stress can bring it on. 

Do you have any idea how absurdly competent I am? How productive? I’m fine receiving the waters of baptism from an exuberant toddler, or a word of prayer from a woman trembling with anguish. Those are welcome reminders that we’re all walking each other home, like Ram Dass says. But this? There’s no suffering in silence, no masking our enfleshed reality. I’m just a person occupying a weird and mystifying body, like you. (Even worse: we’re all basically worms with appendages. Thank you John Green.)

Study of a Kneeling Nude Girl for The Entombment c. 1500–1501 by Michelangelo.

Robert developed shingles ten years ago after leaving a stressful job. Not during the job, mind you; the shingles came on while enjoying a solo hiking trip in Shenandoah. We assumed it was a series of insect bites, or a contact rash. But no. It came on while he was relaxed, unguarded. It astounds me, the body’s calculation of when it can break down; in my case, while wrapped in the safe cocoon of preacher camp. I’d had a massage just that afternoon, for heaven’s sake. 

It’s been three weeks since the diagnosis, and I’m basically back to normal. I was wiped out for several days, though. Even when my energy started to return, thanks to well-timed antivirals and steroid, I continued to receive pleading texts from my spouse on the West Coast: Please rest. You don’t want any complications. I took many naps.

“I have shingles.” It’s something I said often, as people’s caring attention wandered from my eyes to just above them. But my therapist reminds me that illness isn’t something we have, like having a cell phone or a water bottle. Dr. Gabor Mate, author of the wonderful book The Myth of Normal, talks about illness, especially chronic illness, as an organic process that we move with (and sometimes through). It isn’t separate from us. This idea isn’t a romanticization, it’s an undertaking, that’s all… a reality to be embodied. My kid is ADHDing. Or depression-ing. How appropriate that we say I’m grieving, not I have grief.

My therapist said, “You’re shingling. So let yourself do that.” 

If we “have” an illness the way we “have” an ugly scarf our aunt gave us, we can stick it in a drawer and not think about it. But if it’s a journey, then it warrants some time and attention, even if we were forced into it. I couldn’t parent or write or pastor or spouse with the same intensity because I was shingling too, which needed space and care. It was necessary for me to devote time to it, even if I didn’t relish the task.

I wonder sometimes whether learning to relish taking care of the inconvenient and unsightly parts of ourselves is the real work.

~

Your Turn

What’s your body wanting to spending time on right now?
Are you allowing yourself to do so?