Some things can't be rushed.

I was so resolved to finally resume work last Friday.

I went to the office for an appointment with the company physician, determined to get that fit to work status, to finally get my life back on track. But when he saw me (still looking sickly thin, to my dismay) and checked my findings, he told me that apparently, my disease was in sort of "advanced" stage, and I need another month to rest. I was distraught, to be honest. Another month? I might as well be a monk and head to the mountains since I'll be gone for that long.

I bargained if I can work already when my lab tests get better. But what he said to me finally shut me up: take your time to heal.

I was so eager to get things back to normal, that I may have been rushing myself to heal. Once I felt there was no pain anymore, I hoped that was it: I'll be finally healed soon. But there is healing that takes place unseen by my eyes, the healing happening inside me that I know nothing about. And this kind of healing takes time.

This disease teaches me, among all things, the virtue of patience. I've been so impatient as to want to move the hands of the clock, if only I can; my sickness teaches me to just let this clock tick. It will tick in its own time, not in mine. I can do nothing but wait.

For some things can't be rushed.