Best 531 quotes in «illness quotes» category

Du kan bli syk og ussel i skogen, og jeg tror ikke du har været riktig frisk i det senere. -Isak snøste igjen. -Syk? Slitt og træt, ja vel; men syk? Inger måtte ikke gjøre ham latterlig, han var og blev frisk, han spiste, sov og arbeidet, det hvilte jo likefrem en uhelbredelighet over hans fryktelige sundhet.

Dying from an aggressive fatal brain tumor is like dying from Alzheimer's disease accelerated one hundred times.

Electrical engineers Michael Faraday, Nikola Tesla and Steven Magee all developed mental illness.

Acting up, a peculiar phrase. It's what people say to minimize the gravity of their condition. It implies that the offending part (heart, stomach, liver, whatever) is a fractious, bratty child, which can be brought into line with a slap or a sharp word. At the same time, that these symptoms--these tremors and pains, these palpitations--are mere theatrics, and that the organ in question will soon stop capering about and making a spectacle of itself, and resume its placid, off-stage existence.

Esther so badly wanted to save her father, to bring him back from the half death that had become his life. Every time he reminded her that he couldn’t be saved, Esther’s heart broke a little more.

Even if such beauty wasn't meant to be in a world so fallen as ours, that didn't take away from its beauty. It only made it more beautiful.

Even if these researchers do see the need to address the problem immediately, though they have obligations and legitimate interests elsewhere, including being funded for other research. With luck, the ideas discussed in Good Calories, Bad Calories may be rigorously tested in the next twenty years. If confirmed, it will be another decade or so after that, at least, before our public health authorities actively change their official explanation for why we get fat, how that leads to illness, and what we have to do to avoid or reverse those fates. As I was told by a professor of nutrition at New York University after on of my lectures, the kind of change I'm advocating could take a lifetime to be accepted.

Everybody here is infirm. Everybody here is infirm.

Fatigue had started to set in...and now my eyes showed it as I struggled to keep them open.

Far rather would she that he were dead! She could not sit beside him when he stared so and did not see her and made everything terrible; sky and tree, children playing, dragging carts, blowing whistles, falling down; all were terrible. And he would not kill himself; and she could tell no one. "Septimus has been working too hard"––that was all she could say to her own mother. To love makes one solitary, she thought. She could tell nobody, not even Septimus now, and looking back, she saw him sitting in his shabby overcoat alone, on the seat, hunched up, staring. And it was cowardly for a man to say he would kill himself, but Septimus had fought; he was brave; he was not Septimus now. She put on her lace collar. She put on her new hat and he never noticed; and he was happy without her. Nothing could make her happy without him! Nothing! He was selfish. So men are.

... fearing the worst is worse than knowing the worst. So you eventually start wanting the worst possible thing to happen—finding your wife in bed with another man, or watching the worm finally come into the light. Until the worst happens, it always might happen. When it actually does happen? Now, at least, you know.

For many years my best friend was an invisible presence that would go everywhere with me.

For a while she considered being ill, but she changed her mind...

For a second, I stared at the map of her veins just under the surface of her thin skin. It was like her body was trying to become diaphanous. Instead of getting harder and stronger and full of life as we age, we disappear slowly. Our skin thins and evaporates. Our nails barely coat our fingertips. Our hair falls out. We are never more see-through.

For five years, I have been sick and I have been trying to will myself to be better. To think harder about being better, to improve more. To become a better breather, reactor, meditator, hoping that if I just try hard enough, the symptoms will go away and I’ll feel like myself again, like a self I remember as if out of a rearview mirror except with this one, the objects are smaller than they appear. I have tried to force myself to be more clearheaded, energetic, grounded. Tried yoga, acupuncture, cognitive behavioral therapy, talk therapy, and long walks in the woods. And every few months, when I finally felt I’d reached a zenith of my abilities with yoga, CBT, or talk therapy, I would give it another shot: go to another doctor, a Western doctor, one with an M.D. and a white coat, and I would tell him or her my symptoms (for the gender of the doctor does not matter only, it would seem, my gender), and hope that once again, the doctor would pay attention, would take my case, would try to help me so that I didn’t have to so deeply and fervently try to help myself.

He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction. I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.

Futility. Uselessness. Bloody entrophy. Death matters, at least sometimes.

God has graciously sewn laughter into our days, bright moments tucked among the shadows of illness and pain, and while those moments don't change our circumstances, they can lessen our pain and shift our hearts toward joy.

God is not here to be demanded of, begged from, or criticized. He hands out burdens to those who are strong enough to carry them, and I feel profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of lining up with the other invalids and asking for mine to be alleviated.

Goodbye suicide vest, hello paradise.

Hello fentanyl, hello heaven.

Hello darkness, goodbye light.

Hello light, goodbye darkness.

He looked as if he he subsisted exclusively on carbohydrates and ill feeling.

He nodded toward the window with the sunshine streaming in. "You see that? You can go out there, outside, anytime. You can run up and down the block and go crazy. I can't do that. I can't go out. I can't run. I can't be out there without fear of getting sick. But you know what? I appreciate that window more than you do.

Here libido and ego-interest share the same fate and have once more become indistinguishable from each other. The familiar egoism of the sick person covers them both. We find it so natural because we are certain that in the same situation we should behave in just the same way. The way in which the readiness to love, however great, is banished by bodily ailments, and suddenly replaced by complete indifference, is a theme which has been sufficiently exploited by comic writers.

Here they go cruising for a fortnight up in parts where everyone is dead of radiation, and all that they can catch is measles!

Hastalıkta hayal gücü her şeydir. Ona gerektiği gibi başvurulduğunda iyileştirir, ama hayal gücü insanı öldürür de. Bedenin hayal gücüyde sıkıcıdır, hatta her şeyi oldukları haliyle kavrar. Rüyalar hayal gücünün şiiri, hastalık ve düzyazısıdır. Hiç durmadan konuşan bir tanışım, kulakta başlayan bir rahatsızlıktan öldü; büyük el kol hareketleri yapmayı çok seven bir avukat da felç geçirdi. Hastalıkların da modası var. Bizimkilerden daha basit toplumlarda hastalığın da her şey gibi toplumsal ve ortak bir niteliği vardır: En tipik hastalık türü salgınlardır. Bizim toplumumuzda hastalık kişiye özel bir sorundur; modern hastalıklar bulaşıcı değildir. Hastalık her insana tek başına saldırır. Ya ihmal ettiği yahut da aşırı bir şekilde geliştirdiği bir organ kişiye özel olarak seçilir. Bu artık kirlilik değil, bireysel bir yargıdır. Başkasına geçirilemeyeceği için ona daha büyük bir uysallıkla katlanılır.

Hello heaven, goodbye world.

He realised that he was probably unwell in some way, but it did not seem to be a state of ill health about which anything could be done; you could not go to the doctor and say that you didn't know what season it was.

Here’s what's breaking into my imagination and whatever is in there; that you are not afraid you’ve seen, is yours to take.

He took a deep breath that whispered into his lungs.

I cannot defeat cancer. Nobody defeats cancer. There is no winning or losing. There is no surviving or not surviving. There are only coin flips: heads or tails; benign or malignant; weight loss or bloating; morphine or oxycodone; extreme rescue efforts or Do Not Resuscitate; live or die.

His legs withered. His stomach stretched taut as a drum. His skin erupted in watery pustules: whichever way he turned was agony. Phosphorescent centipedes crawled over him at night; and the vultures spattered him with ammoniac droppings, shuffling for position along the wall, and flexing their pinions with the noise of tearing silk.

Home was where others had to gather grace. Home was what I wanted to flee.

Humankind was a disease. The earth was the body. Climate change was the fever.

I became a mother before becoming sick, but i never expected sickness to take away my independent mothering, so i plant trees to sooth my soul from the aching pains of losing the maternal ability to mother another child. My first born will be my only treasure, the one who knew who i was before the mess entered our lives and also the one who adapted with me to a reality we weren't certain of oh and lots of plants and plants and plants.

Hospitals are hotels for sick people.

However, one thing that grave illness does is to make you examine familiar principles and seemingly reliable sayings. And there's one that I find I am not saying with quite the same conviction as I once used to: In particular, I have slightly stopped issuing the announcement that "whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger." In fact, I now sometimes wonder why I ever thought it profound... In the brute physical world, and the one encompassed by medicine, there are all too many things that could kill you, don't kill you, and then leave you considerably weaker.

I am at one with crazy.

I am fighting to stay alive not because I fear death, but because I love life.

I am in an unstable relationship with mental illness.

I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy to be alive.

I am to be cured, now that summer is finished Harvested of my sickness, re-arranged for winter. Seven devils are not easily banished Nor the knot of blindness loosened by a quick knife. Outside, ignored, the July evenings saunter, I have turned back to my room, waiting for my life, Trying to recollect how the white drug fell Clogging my veins in an avalanche of sleep - Life Story

I believe that for every illness or ailment known to man, that God has a plant out here that will heal it. We just need to keep discovering the properties for natural healing.

I came to realize we are held in the arms of God and are utterly completely safe - in life and in death; whether walking alone or with others.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up in a cold sweat thinking I’m being chased by a grunting, disfigured man wielding a hatchet. Usually we're at an abandoned campground, which leads me to believe this is a subconscious mashup of Friday the 13th and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. He never catches me. The only thing that ever happens is I'm running and he's chasing. It's pretty horrible. I know it’s not real, but it feels real, and you know how feelings are. They make everything real.

I couldn't stand the waiting anymore. I couldn't stand how alone it made me feel." And a part of you wished it would just end, said the monster, even if it meant losing her. And the nightmare began. The nightmare that always ended with - "I let her go," Conor choked out. "I could have held on but I let her go." And that, the monster said, is the truth. "I didn't mean it, though!" Conor said, his voice rising. "I didn't mean to let her go! And now it's for real! Now she's going to die and it's my fault!" And that, the monster said, is not the truth at all.

I’d felt this before, when my granddad was in the hospital before he died. We all camped out in the waiting room, eating our meals together, most of us sleeping in the chairs every night. Family from far-flung places would arrive at odd hours and we’d all stand and stretch, hug, get reacquainted, and pass the babies around. A faint, pale stream of beauty and joy flowed through the heavy sludge of fear and grief. It was kind of like those puddles of oil you see in parking lots that look ugly until the sun hits them and you see rainbows pulling together in the middle of the mess. And wasn’t that just how life usually felt—a confusing swirl of ugly and rainbow?

I did not know what she suffered from, but I knew that her malady must have been horrible; I knew that from the way she used to embrace me.