Every Passover, I spend the holiday dinner, or seder, with friends. We talk about the Jews’ Exodus from Egypt, and how that story applies to today. This year, one of the topics we discussed was, “How do you feel broken right now?” It was supposed to be a reflection on current affairs.

That is not how I took the question.

My initial reaction was, what do you mean right now?

Apparently, depression doesn’t go away just because you’re distracted by other medical issues. Neither do medical equipment malfunctions, insurance issues, or the energy drain of condition management.

Luckily, throughout the cataract process, my other conditions have been stable. Mostly. Enough that I could sideline them for a month and maintain my peace of mind, anyway.

But the depression is the refrigerator hum right now, and has been, as much or more than the diabetes, since I started treating it.

There are a lot of things aside from medication that I have incorporated in order to pull myself out of where I was that will also help me take measure of where my depression stands.

Does it sound weird if I talk about my depression the same way I do my other conditions?

It feels a little weird.

Cataracts grow about as quickly as sand moves, or so my ophthalmologist says. So, for 31 years, I’ve had a glacially slow cloud moving over the middle of my lenses. So, the first thought I had after surfacing from my first dose of anesthesia in decades, was OMG, color! I hadn’t realized how much the world had dulled as I kicked the surgery can further and further down the road.

When I was in 4th grade, my mom made the mistake of letting me brush my own very thick hair. The problem was, it hurt, so I only brushed the top. It looked fine, but the bottom layer developed large knots right at the base of my skull. They couldn’t be untangled, so they had to be cut out. It was the first time my hair had been shorter than my waist.

I cried for two weeks.

With any medical procedure, there are a ton of logistical details that come with it, along with whatever emotional burden you are already carrying.

Routine outpatient procedures are no different. Making sure you check all the boxes so you don’t inadvertently screw everything up is a chore and a half. (This is different from intentionally screwing everything up. You have no idea how difficult it has been to not self-sabotage, given my talent for it and my near two decades of delaying tactics.)

In this case, it’s not a lot of things. But it’s enough that I can’t procrastinate as I usually do.

One of my friends recently asked me how best to manage a chronic condition.

During the transition between noncompliance and acceptance, I clearly remember that all I wanted was to get to the point where I could relegate my regimen to a tiny corner of my life. I would be “normal” and it would become so easy and routine that the whole thing would take up no more of my attention every day than, say, brushing my teeth. I’m here to tell you it’s possible!

Well, sometimes.

Two weeks to go before I have the first of two surgeries I’ve been putting off for nearly 20 years. My logical self knows that this is a very common, non-risky surgery, and that I will be happy with the results. Reading and driving will get exponentially easier. I get my nightlife back! Yay!

But try telling that to my emotional self.

For those of us who enjoy the opportunity to keep learning long past our school days, chronic conditions offer a unique opportunity, an opportunity we have no choice but to take, whether we want to or not. There is no such thing as knowing everything there is to know about your conditions because, first, no two patient conditions are the same, and second, they keep changing based on things like age and lifestyle.

By intimacy, I mean the kind you have with family and close friends. They are a patient’s support system, sometimes as much or more than a significant other.

My childhood as a patient did me no favors when it comes to being comfortable with letting other people really see me. All of those physical challenges came with mental hits, and I hid everything because head down and focused on survival was the only way to, well, survive. Being judged or hurt or rejected – which did happen – had to take a back seat, so I spared no time to deal with them.

By the time my mom died when I was 24, I was closed tighter than my hermetically sealed apartment windows.

What do I mean by that?

If you know my story at all, you have probably heard that I have cataracts. They are a result of the high doses of steroids I had to take to treat and recover from meningitis when I was six. They were diagnosed ten years later by my ophthalmologist, who was a family friend. He actually didn’t tell me. I had to hear it from my godmother. Again, if you know me, you know how angry I was even then. But that’s a different story.

Most people who have cataracts have surgery fairly quickly to replace the affected lenses. My dad had surgery years ago, even though he was diagnosed a lot more recently, but I have been stubborn. Shocker, right?