The Loss of Adventure
Adventure has always been a core part of who I am. I’ve always been poor, so I’m not talking in the sense of grand trips and expensive excursions. Rather, I infused adventure into everything I did. It’s how I raised my girls. It was all about the everyday adventures. Turning an errand into a game, being silly in Target, celebrating the mundane.
A year ago, it all changed. My illness took over. It led to major injury, which had me laid up for months. And since then, there’s been very little room for adventure between the pain and the stress and the confusion — and the barely hanging on.
I feel like this illness has robbed me of my sense of adventure. The things that used to bring me so much joy — those everyday, little things — now are mired in effort and pain and struggle. Where did that part of me go? The part that could turn a tedious chore into a fit of giggles. The part that cherished mystery and the possibility. The part that knew every day held new adventures.
I’m angry and I’m grieving and I’m so very sad. Angry that I didn’t even realize my sense of adventure had died. Grief for who I used to be, the way I used to live life. Sad that so much time has gone by, and that I’ve missed out on so much.
I start to search for places, moments, when I’ve felt that spark. Like earlier this month, when we found out that Arabella no longer needed a cardiologist, and I decided we needed to celebrate — with giant slices of cheesecake from a new bakery in town.
And then I see other moments that I would have had a heyday with once upon a time — like our road trip to the Mayo Clinic, and our week spent there. Before my illness took over, I would have found all sorts of cool shops to explore between appointments, or explored the art in the clinic buildings. There was a self-guided art tour and everything! But I was so wrapped up in stress and pain that the only art I saw was the stuff we passed on our way to my appointments.
It’s Christmas. My absolute favorite time of year. I am soaking up as much as I can, and yet…it’s different. Shopping for stocking stuffers was always one of my favorite things to do. Finding inexpensive, little surprises for my kids was a challenge I relished. But this year it was just another task to cross off the list, as I shuffled through the aisles in pain. Making gifts is nearly too much to ask, even with the help of my husband, which breaks my heart. I don’t want to be taking shortcuts or having to make simpler projects. I want to dive in and get lost in the world of creating for those I love most. I want to spend hours crafting and making. Like I used to.
I’m also afraid. Scared that — along with so many other things stolen by this illness — I may never regain that sense of everyday adventure. What if this is as good as it will ever get again? I’m so tired. Bone tired. The weariness has just settled in and feels like it will never leave.
What do I do with this? Now that I’ve realized it’s gone, how do I call it back? I know the answer. I need to find small ways to nurture it again. How can I make the bad days in bed more adventurous? How can I find adventure in the hardest parts of my week — like when I have to drive across town to pick kids up from school? I realize that spontaneous adventure is overreaching right now, and that’s okay. Pre-planned adventure works, too. Maybe I can make themed tote bags of activities for stuck-in-bed days. Adventure at my fingertips — art or reading or crosswords or coloring. Maybe I need to find really great audiobooks or podcasts to listen to on my way to the schools — or make killer playlists for karaoke in the car.
There are still ways to reclaim my sense of adventure. It won’t come as naturally to me, and that will be frustrating at times. But over time, as I’m adjusting to my new “normal” in life with chronic illness, it’ll become more natural again.
xo,
