It’s a limited view, of course. The prone position, at least indoors, doesn’t offer much to look at. In the last many days (I’ve lost count), the pain of a nasty back episode has necessitated almost continual bed rest. I would have been pleased with a skylight—clouds and stars both draw the human spirit upward and outward. 

            So: the wise ones among us, who ponder the meaning of life, agree that pain is not only  an inevitable part of life but also a great teacher of wisdom. I am not a sage, just an unwilling, and uncomfortable observer of the dogwood branches, caught in the relentless prairie wind, sweeping back and forth across the window, making shadow patterns on the curtains. Every now and then, a blue jay, sometimes wet from our nearby bird bath, comes to the bird feeder to ponder the day’s offerings and then hammer open peanut shells with his/her beak. Then the jay is gone again, until the next visit. Wisdom remains elusive.

            Nevertheless, I have learned a few things in the past month:

            It is prudent to select your confidantes carefully when you choose to talk about back pain (or colds, or any common human ailment). Unwanted advice is immediately and freely given, especially by those who know little about you or the problem. While in my worst days, I would have tried any magical brew—so I said in my desperation— I do want to believe that common sense would have come to my rescue and prevented outright silliness. Better to turn complete hermit and take a vow of silence than be regaled with others’ tales of suffering and/or miraculous cures.

            I learned that the familiar number scale for measuring pain—on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain?—doesn’t convey enough information. I offered my physiotherapist (who knows me well enough to interpret my moods) a new scale: stiff upper lip toleration of discomfort; winces and grimaces; moans, groans, and muttered imprecations; uncontrolled sobbing; and at the top end, screams. It’s a sliding scale, of course, because what evoked a bare grimace early on might later provoke sobs of weary despair.

            I discovered that the most important task of a health care worker, at whatever level, is to be kind. It’s that simple. Kind enough to listen. Lack of kindness doubles pain and deepens the loneliness that already surrounds the sufferer, who dwells in a separate country, the land of Oz, as Nora Gallagher describes it in Moonlight Sonata in the Mayo Clinic.

            In another time, that was the book that gave me comfort, that spoke words that I could hear and understand.

            But something about Lila’s strange encounter with an old preacher in a small town held my attention. He saw her as a fellow human being with innate dignity and extended to her, not only incredible kindness, but also grace. He lived his theology, fully prepared to question all of his erudite Calvinist doctrine rather than cause Lila any distress. And the possibility of such all-embracing grace was what I needed to hear.

For chronic pain has a way of involving body, soul, and spirit. It pulls together into one overwhelming sensation all of the stress and all of the guilt over hurtful mistakes and complicated relationships and all of the existential worries and whatever else is stewing around in the mind. That entire mess needs to be accepted and offered grace.

            Reading Lila was a serendipitous choice, because the final bit of wisdom that being helpless in pain gave me was a new awareness of how difficult life must be for those who don’t have an address, who don’t have easy access to medical care, who couldn’t imagine paying for additional services like physiotherapy or even any necessary medication. I’ve had lots of time to ponder the privileges available to some and not to others.

Lila ended with some hope, I’m glad to say, while remaining realistic and thoughtful. My own involuntary journey into the land of Oz seems headed toward the exit (still too far away for my liking), for which I’m more grateful than I know how to say. I have also not walked alone. That is an incredible gift.