Comfort

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole and that means comfort."
--The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

When I was a kid, I found out about something called Southern Comfort. Though it was in a sparkling—princess pretty—decanter, I knew it was only for adults by the smell. Most adults, I noticed, ignored the smell and drank it as if it really was able to bring them something they may or may not have known they needed: Southern Comfort.

I remember imagining what Southern Comfort felt like in comparison with comforts from other places. Clearly, Southern Comfort was the most desirable kind of comfort. And that is because it comes from the South. Not a cold and snowy comfort like from the North; nor a glitzy and suntanned comfort like from the West. But a warm and tropical comfort like the humid salty air near the Galveston Bay where I was raised.

Finding and keeping the right kind of comfort has become important to me since I was diagnosed with cancer in October. Though the Principal of an elementary I once taught at said I was a risk-taker in the best way, I find myself in this season shunning too much excitement and seeking comfort instead. And not really just physical comfort, but emotional comfort.

A good friend and mentor of mine spent years finding comfort for the unexpected death of his son. I don’t even think my friend realized he was doing it. He was just searching for something that would resolve things somehow. I remember sitting in his office only two weeks after my diagnosis and a few years after his son’s death, listening to him tell me of his visits to the places his son had loved and how going there now made him feel close to his son. I was amazed that my friend had found something that could work to ease his pain, then I said, “Now, I’ve got to find comfort and I don’t even know where to start.”

Comfort just isn’t easy to find when you’re suffering. It’s as if everything that worked for you before doesn’t work any more. You try the old ways and nothing sticks. The pain continues. You have to move on and try things that you’ve never thought of or that you rejected long ago as ineffective. It can be a long process, but I found comfort in simple things.

That first night after high dose chemo, when I was throwing up the lining of my stomach (literally) and in terrible pain, Kirk was my main comfort. All night he did whatever he could to ease my physical pain. But he was there for the emotional pain as well. “This is the worst of it,” he said. “You’ll get through and tomorrow will be less hard.” He reminded me that I would live, no matter how much it hurt right then.

I pray everyone going through a night such as I experienced has a Kirk to give them comfort.

But here is my list of comforts that really work for me. Unlike Southern Comfort, they are non-alcoholic; and, though many of them require a “Kirk” or caregiver to work, many of them do not:

--Talking to God alone.

--Praying with Kirk.

--Breathing, meditating, guided imagery.

--Reading Psalm 23.

--Being close to my mother, my father and my sister.

--Feeling the love of friends.

--Writing.

--Hugging my son.

--Getting a neck rub from Kirk.

--Shooting photographs.

--Drawing with colored pencils.

--Time in the sauna or hot tub.

And if I have enough energy:

--Walking outside.

--Dancing to music.

If you are seeking comfort, I hope you find things that work for you. If you haven’t, don’t give up. Try some simple things and see if comfort comes. If not, try something else. Never give up until you find what works.