The Pain of Healing
The Wanderer and the Messenger
(8”x10”) mixed media on textured paper. 16 July, 2022.
“It is our wounds that create in us a desire to reach for miracles -“ Jocelyn Soriano writes in Mend my Broken Heart. “The fulfillment of such miracles depends on whether we let our wounds pull us down, or lift us up toward our dreams.”
Bonded by a familiar piece of Caspar David Friedrich’s (The Wanderer Above a sea of Fog) and the Shriners Hospital for Children statue (The Silent Messenger / Editorial Without Words), this piece was designed to contemplate a time in my own life where things were pretty frightening.
“The Wanderer and the Messenger” is the first piece in a new series I’m calling “The Pain of Healing,” with the primary focus on medical trauma and feelings attached to those memories. The first part of my healing journey was accepting that the things done to me were not designed to hurt me, but instead to help me. When I accepted this, the once lonely, scary memories, now are replaced with crutches of support.
Maya Angelou stated, “As soon as healing takes place, go out and heal somebody else.” It is my hope that in following this healing journey, others, too, might find the courage to heal their wounds as well.
So, here we are, at the very beginning of a long, strenuous, painful, and humbling path. Always remember, reactions come and go - keep moving forward.
“Home of Healing”
(6” x 4”) Mixed media on textured paper. 23 October, 2022.
As an adult, I can appreciate the good this place exudes; however, this series was never intended to heal adult Noah, but childhood Noah, instead.
As a child, the mere mention of Shriners Hospital for Children would bring instant anxiety to me. I can recall sitting on the front porch of our home when I was twelve, trying to talk my mom out of taking me to the hospital for an upcoming surgery. By then, I had already had eleven body cast applications, growing rods inserted into my back, five rod lengthenings and countless x-rays. On the porch, just days before my original rods would be exchanged for new ones, I remember feeling so depleted, exhausted with this seemingly never-ending process.
“We will taste pain on this journey…” author Ryan Holiday states in Discipline is Destiny. I always struggled with the dichotomy of pain and healing as a child. ‘How could help hurt?’ I’d ask myself. However, as an adult, it is all so clear. Sometimes, in life, we have to endure things that really, really hurt. But if it was not for the pain, how could we fully appreciate all the goodness? All the times you were smiling instead of fearing? You could not.
If childhood Noah had his way and quit the process, the person I am today would surely be very different. Without medical intervention, the curve in my spine would eventually curve to the point of my ribs crushing vital organs. My breathing would most likely be labored, and my life expectancy shortened.
Instead, I persevered, having ten rod lengthening procedures, and a spinal fusion (T2 - L4) in 2015. My last appointment here was a week before I would begin my senior year of high school. After receiving the all clear from my doctor, I had graduated from the shrine. I never thought I would, but I am grateful to separate the hurt from healing. It is all so clear. Only appreciation remains.
The healing continues, in all different ways. Keep going.
“In & Out”
(10” x 8”) mixed media on textured paper. 28 April, 2023
“It’ll just be in and out,” the staff at Shriners Hospital in Erie would say to me, just before putting me asleep for another surgery. Over time, many sights and particular items started to stand out more and more following each visit.
The pre-op and post-op areas of the hospital were almost exact mirrors of each other, separated by two double doors. I knew I’d begin on one side of those double doors, fall asleep, and then regain consciousness on the other side. The first sight waiting for my tired eyes to open was always a recycled coke can airplane that hung over the nurses station. Seeing this was like a light at the end of the tunnel. The scariest part of the process was done - at least until I was due for another one, just a few months down the line.
As I drifted through the anesthesia-fueled clouds, the coca-cola airplane above the nurses station was always there to bring me back down, landing me in the very caring hands of the Shriners staff.
The hospital was a place that helped me grow and become the person I am today. It was a place of pain, but also a place of hope and healing. I learned to be brave and strong, and I received the love and support of those around me.
The coca-cola airplane may seem like a small thing, but it represented so much more. It was a reminder that I was not alone, and that there were people who cared about me and believed in me. It was a symbol of hope and a beacon of light in the darkness.
Now, many years later, I still carry the lessons I learned at Shriners with me. I know that life can be tough, but I also know that we can overcome anything with time, patience, trust and determination. I am grateful for the experiences I had at the hospital, and I will always remember the coca-cola airplane that saw me through some of my toughest moments.
“Bubbled Interspace” Part 2
17”x22” Mixed media on textured paper. 17 May, 2023