Quotes for Events - Severe Illness

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Quotes for severe illness.

Cancer patients are lied to, not just because the disease is (or is thought to be) a death sentence, but because it is felt to be obscene--in the original meaning of that word: ill-omened, abominable, repugnant to the senses.

We study health, and we deliberate upon our meats and drink and air and exercises, and we hew and we polish every stone that goes to that building; and so our health is a long and regular work. But in a minute a cannon batters all, overthrows all, demolishes all; a sickness unprevented for all our diligence, unsuspected for all our curiosity, nay, undeserved, if we consider only disorder, summons us, seizes us, possesses us, destroys us in an instant.
Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail, Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim, And seas of Pain seem waving through each limb--Ah what can all Life's gilded scenes avail?
Long illness is the real vampyrism; think of living a year or two after one is dead, by sucking the lifeblood out of a frail young creature at one's bedside! Well, souls grow white, as well as cheeks, in these holy duties; one that goes in a nurse may come out an angel.
The sick man in his apparent inactivity has a very grand human task to fulfil. He must of course never cease to aim at his own cure and recovery. Also he must of course use all the strength that remains to him for the different kinds of sometimes extremely productive work that are within his powers. Christian resignation, in fact, is just the opposite of giving up. Once he has resolved to combat his sickness in this way, the sick man must realize that in proportion to his sickness he has a special function to perform, in which no one can replace him: the task of co-operating in the transformation (one might say conversion) of human suffering.
In the last states of a final illness, we need only the absence of pain and the presence of family.
I might have had a tough break; but I have an awful lot to live for!
To be sick brings out all our prejudices and primitive feelings. Like fear or love, it makes us a little crazy. Yet the craziness of the patient is part of his condition.
A man's illness is his private territory and, no matter how much he loves you and how close you are, you stay an outsider. You are healthy.
Pain probably makes us a bit godly. . . as tender love does. It makes us rue and summarize; it makes us bend and yield up ourselves.
Grieve for a decent limited time over whatever parts of your old self you know you'll miss. . . . Then stanch the grief, by whatever legal means. Next find your way to be somebody else, the next viable you--a stripped down whole other clear-eyed person, realistic as a sawed-off shotgun and thankful for air, not to speak of the human kindness you'll meet if you get normal luck.
Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick.
Right there is the usefulness of migraine, there in that imposed yoga, the concentration on the pain. For when the pain recedes, ten or twelve hours later, everything goes with it, all the hidden resentments, all the vain anxieties. The migraine has acted as a circuit breaker, and the fuses have emerged intact. There is a pleasant convalescent euphoria.
For a while she'd exist in that peculiar stage in her recovery in which she'd be too strong for the hospital, yet too weak for the world, able to repossess her body only enough to feel again the claims of those who loved and needed her, but not enough to feel that she could satisfy those claims.