Fighting Myself (Or: Lupus and Buddy Poppies)

Lately, I’ve been fighting a lot. Every single day, I fight. This is odd because, as a rule, I avoid conflict, dislike confrontation, and would rather walk away from an argument than engage in one. But, here I am, fighting.

I fight fatigue. I fight pain. I fight the insidious ‘blues’ that tend to come with chronic illness. I fight the desire to give up and say, ‘Forget it. I’d rather stay in bed today.”

Each day, I tell myself that tomorrow will be better. I just need to fight for this one day. I just need to cling to whatever energy I have for just this moment in time, because the next moment? It’s going to be the one where all my energy returns and my brain starts functioning and I feel like I did before.

Of course, the next day comes, and I fight again. Because this is now my thing. What I do. Whether I want to or not. And, actually, I want to. There’s no  other choice, right? Even when you know you’re not going to win, that the next day you’ll be back, doing the same thing all over again, you still have to give it a shot.

Yesterday, Cheeky and I went to the grocery store. 

I needed to pick up a few things. I didn’t feel like going. I felt like lying in bed and sleeping my Saturday away, but I have lots of work to do. Work that I love. 

I have a family to care for. 

And, I love that, too.

 So, off we went. 

We parked in the middle of the lot. Not near the left entrance to the building and not near the right one. One of the things I’m learning as I deal with lupus is that I need to get my exercise in where I can. I always park far from wherever I’m going. My feet hurt like crazy, but the heart has got to be exercised. My primary doctor told me that she’s seen people with lupus die of two things – kidney disease and heart failure, so I’m making sure I’m taking very good care of my ticker!

I limped my way across the lot with my daughter. To the left, I could see the cute little Girl Scouts selling their cookies. Adults, kids, shoppers handing over cash. Everyone seemed cheerful and happy. To the right, a man sat in front of a table. He was by himself. I realized as I got closer that he was a veteran collecting for the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He had those little poppies on the table and a bucket for people to put their dollars in.  His hands were speckled with age, his skin lined, and he wore a uniform hat decorated with a several badges. He smiled, and he reminded me of dozens of men and women I know and have known.

It made me want to cry. 

I don’t know why, but I was looking at this guy who is in the eighth or ninth decade of his life, seeing someone who fought for values and ideals that often seem to be lacking in our culture now. The keystone of who we once were as a nation was in his eyes, the hay-day of nationalism lived somewhere in his soul. He fought before Vietnam and its anti-military backlash. He served before free-love and make-yourself-happy. He was raised in a time when community was as important as individuality and helping a neighbor was not some heroic feat to be celebrated on social media. It was just what a decent human being did.

I dropped some money in the bucket, and he handed me three poppies. Then, he thanked me and shook my hand. He still has a firm grip, and he still has a direct gaze, and I would venture a guess that he knows the value of a small act of service, a kind word, an unsolicited smile.

He reminded me of what I sometimes forget. A firm handshake, a steady gaze, a man sitting in the coolness of an autumn day collecting for an organization that helps those who have helped so many: those things still matter. They are not old fashioned or outdated. They are still as meaningful as they have ever been. 

In a country where impatience, anger, selfishness and discontent seem to be the order of the day, there are men and women and children who still understand that what is good and right will always be good and right. Compassion, empathy, integrity, love, they never go out of style. Through those things, the soul is exercised and the heart begins to beat for others. 

 And that, my friends, is where true living begins.