A Starry Kind of Darkness

Another Sunday letter

Dear Friend,

I’m writing this, and it’s still Saturday morning, early. I never intended these letters to be a medical diary, or the saga of an illness, or anything like that. I don’t know how to tell illness stories. I’m not good at being ill. As I think I said in my note about all of this in December, I can’t seem to muster the grace that I see in others who deal with this kind of thing. The beauty in the face of adversity. The inspiring narrative. The heroic shaved head. The discreet scar from a reconstructive surgery, displayed in a sexy photo.

In writing about illness, suddenly your life becomes as transparent as a hospital room at night, all windows lit up, floor to ceiling, a glass box illuminated. Or does it? You can’t truly talk about what is happening to you without also revealing the secrets you might not want to share. Who is there supporting you. Who isn’t. If there are people near to you, they become characters. The supportive (or unsupportive) partner. The gallant friend. The complicated (or uncomplicated) family member. The people you know are in danger of becoming stock characters, and I don’t want to make anyone in my life into characters like that. So I obscure certain facts. I will say “someone I know” even when I mean someone very close to me.