The lame man: no more excuses

I got sick. REALLY sick. I don't get sick so much, really at all. But a week after Enter the Blues, I started coughing one night. The next morning I woke up with the bubonic flu plague of death. There was coughing and aching and a fever in addition to the sniffly nose and complete lack of energy. I didn't want to cook or eat or think about food: this is always a bad sign. My friend Mary cooked me lunch and sent me home with soup and movies.

Now the strange thing is that I think of sickness as a welcome: if I think I'm getting sick and I don't, I usually wish I had been. This may seem strange, but think about it. What happens when you get sick as a kid? Your mom takes care of you. There is soup involved, and tea, and orange juice. And no school! But now what happens? I feel like death, like all life has been drained from me. I do not want to eat or live. I have no impulse to do anything. I am not the Megan you know.

Because of the severity of it, I want to remember this sickness. I want to remember it because for the first time I so clearly understood that I truly do not want to be sick: I want to be well in as many ways possible. I want my boundless energy and exuberance, even if I'm not sure where to channel them. I don't want to feel sorry for myself. I don't want to make excuses or be a victim: I want to choose. I do not want to live like the lame man who, when Jesus asks him if he wants to be well makes excuses: I want to take up my mat and walk away rejoicing.