Note: In continuation. I will try to get as far as I can. Again, this might be disjointed and a little messy. Please comment if you have any questions. You can find post 1 here.
There really was more to that night than just "opening up". Here I was, sitting in the car with one of the most important people in my life and I was bawling my eyes out. Breaths were more like desperate ragged gasps for air between random tangents related only to the fleeting feelings of that moment, nothing connected, and everything grasping.
All that kept surfacing again and again was how alone I was, and my fear that this could be the last ... everything. That the last time I loved and was loved, could be the last. I felt as though I was locked into a horrible dream where karma was the evil judge, and every past sin was laid before me and shouting "this is why"! I was a mess, and even after he left, I sat in the parking lot at work and cried.
Once I felt my tears had dried enough, I began my drive home, and my phone calls. It was time to let everyone know. I had crossed the line now from my secret to my battle.
***
I made conscious decisions based on many factors on who to call and when. I saved those who would be most fragile or had enough other things going on themselves for last. My grandparents, brother, and best friend were all at the end of the list ... I hated to think of causing them worry or raining on the joy and happiness in their own lives. To me, it really wasn't as important to create a support circle as it was to protect them.
There were surprises among the calls, people who were full of information, people who had a million questions, people who were uncharacteristically supportive ... and a few others who had no idea what to say, and haven't tried since. I quickly became tired of the words "I'm sorry" ... as they felt almost like a cop-out, something to say when you don't want to say what you're really thinking. I also didn't want pity, I just wanted them to know. Even from the beginning, it was never about how bad I could feel about what was happening, but what could I do to change it.
The doctors and I began talking about what to do, how to fight, what tactics and measures to use. Surgery was always a given, but as I am a single mom, the timing was dependent on when I could actually afford to take time off of work, and still maintain our already fragile financial life. Thankfully, my employer is family-centric, and there is a paid vacation scheduled around the Thanksgiving holiday that would allow me enough time to heal without a huge impact on our checkbook. It was 9 weeks away when we scheduled. The question now was, what would we do between now and then?
Now keep in mind, I don't have insurance. I have no idea how I can pay for my medication, treatments, the surgery, and still keep our little family afloat. Thankfully, when I was discussing all of the options and choices with my cousin, she was wise enough to tell me that health can't wait, but medical bills can.
I started to research. I heard this over and over again from friends and loved ones as I talked to them about what I would do. Clinical trials, hormone therapies, chemo ... so many foreign words to learn and things to make decisions about. I am usually a very decisive person, and I could not make up my mind. My process was more one of elimination based on comfort level than one based on actual facts, at least at first. This meant clinical trials were a no-go, and, well, chemo wasn't exactly ranking high either. Sure, its track record was amazing, but there was just something about losing my hair that sent me into a collapsed mess of tears every time. I opted for hormone-suppressants.
At first, I was comfortable with my choice. I had already been having hot flashes, mood swings and night sweats. Only - those all now got worse, along with a couple of other side effects I hadn't bargained for. About as fast as I started it, I decided I had made the wrong decision ... but of course, I had to wait to talk to the doctor.
***
... again, to be continued. Sorry!
Showing posts with label emotion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label emotion. Show all posts
10/12/10
10/11/10
The beginning of a Journey (pt. 1)
Note: This might be disjointed and a little messy. It's all fairly fresh and yet jumbled even in my mind. Please comment if you have any questions.
A few weeks ago I started a new journey. I guess, to be more correct, I started on the journey several months ago, I've just become skilled at ignoring my body and warning signs. And putting off doctor appointments.
Anyways, I digress. Early in September of this year I finally went to the doctor. Something was wrong, and not just the "I think I'm getting sick" kind of wrong, more like a "wow, there is something serious going on here" kind of wrong. If you know me though, I talked myself out of every possible scenario and had convinced myself it was nothing. Even joked that maybe I was pregnant.
Of course, as of January 2007, that would be impossible.
I went in, they drew blood, they did tests, they cut pieces, they scheduled more tests. They did exams, asked questions, looked at history. After the first few rounds of tests that were followed by letters and phone calls of "Everything looks normal for x and x and x" was when I started to realize that something actually was seriously wrong. And there were a few tests that I still hadn't heard the results on.
A little history: Years ago, it seems like lifetimes now, although it was not really quite that long, I had tests and procedures and such. I took hormones, and pills and had things removed and frozen. I had always just assumed that if the "Big C" ever came to get me, it would get me in the same place. It's fairly common, and I expected it.
After I had my youngest, I did the routine post delivery check up. Things looked fine, in fact, more normal than they ever had, so I felt confident. Headaches that started shortly thereafter, the night sweats, the hot flashes, things late or missing - well, maybe it was normal. I didn't really know anyone who had had a tubal before, how was I to know what I could expect?
Things changed over time though, got more intense. I never scheduled another yearly appointment again, even in spite of all of this. Instead, I'd text my best friend if things weirded me out. "Whats this mean?" became the opener of many conversations.
And again, I have found the little path that leads away from my point. Eventually, after much prodding and cajoling and hard hitting attempts to convince me, I ended up at the doctor that September afternoon. Then, it was time to wait.
***
A couple of weeks passed. If you've ever had a test done and you had to wait for the results, you know what it feels like. You jump a little everytime the phone rings, you count down the days til they expected to have them back. When the phone finally does ring and you see THAT NUMBER, you actually hesitate and take a huge breath that you're afraid to exhale for fear of everything crashing down. And you haven't even answered the phone.
I was at work when "the call" came. Not just the "you have results" call. The voicemail left was closer to "you need to call us as soon as you get this." When I got to a phone to return the message, I was never more glad that I had shut myself in my bosses office and she was gone for the day. There is nothing like hearing that your results are back, but that you'll need to make an appointment to discuss them, and we have openings tomorrow, Friday afternoon, if you're able ...
I don't know which emotion hit first, it was something between angry at myself, scared for the girls, and worried about my friends and family. I don't think I cried for an entire week -- nor did I talk to anyone about it. There was nothing to talk about. Yet.
Friday afternoon, under the guise of running an errand, I left work early and went to my doctor's office. There is never a more alone feeling than knowing you're about to hear something so very possibly life changing that you'll wish you had someone by your side just to hold you up. But I didn't have anyone. I was alone in receiving this, just as I would be alone in the fight of it. It is my body that is sick, my mind that has to go through the thoughts, the pain and the sadness and joy of it, so it was only fitting that it was only me who would hear what came next. Fear has never suited me well, and I wasn't about to let it start.
I do feel bad for doctors. I cannot imagine having to tell someone who's children you've delivered, whom you've come to know and joke with and laugh with, that they are sick. I can understand the stammering, the sideways glances, the moments taken to recollect thoughts and choose words. I am also grateful that this friendship is one that I share with my doctor ... I don't know that it would have been easier to have just been "another chart" when I was told.
When he came in, he was more serious than normal. His expression soft, and yet clouded, he started, and didn't mince words. "We think you have cancer."
Now, you remember, I always expected this. From the moment of that first biopsy years before, it had been something I had planned for. I was calm and calculated in my response, enough that I think I surprised him. I had him fooled, but of course, I was a spinning spiral of confusion and fear and the sickening realization that no matter how much you think you expect something, that when it actually happens, you feel like an entire convoy of Mack trucks decided to drive over you and back a few times.
I have family members and friends that recommend taking notes at every appointment. I keep meaning to bring something, but I suppose for me, writing something makes it real, and I don't know that I am ready for all of the numbers and the language to be a part of my reality yet. Because of this, I came away from that appointment firmly believing that I had cervical cancer. Wake up call to me by the next visit.
When I went in again to discuss the ultrasound results, it was obvious, quickly, that I was wrong. I had endometrial (uterine) cancer, and it had spread to my cervix. This was when the first jolt of fear hit me. This was not a part of what I expected at all.
That week, I was noticeably snappy. I was irritable and emotional, the latter of which is not normal for me. I would cry over silly things, oversensitive in my reactions to jokes and normal interactions. Finally, one night, I broke down to another of my closest friends. It was the first time I actually let the fear and sadness and worry of it all overtake me.
... this is all I can emotionally and physically handle tonight, so it is to be continued ...
A few weeks ago I started a new journey. I guess, to be more correct, I started on the journey several months ago, I've just become skilled at ignoring my body and warning signs. And putting off doctor appointments.
Anyways, I digress. Early in September of this year I finally went to the doctor. Something was wrong, and not just the "I think I'm getting sick" kind of wrong, more like a "wow, there is something serious going on here" kind of wrong. If you know me though, I talked myself out of every possible scenario and had convinced myself it was nothing. Even joked that maybe I was pregnant.
Of course, as of January 2007, that would be impossible.
I went in, they drew blood, they did tests, they cut pieces, they scheduled more tests. They did exams, asked questions, looked at history. After the first few rounds of tests that were followed by letters and phone calls of "Everything looks normal for x and x and x" was when I started to realize that something actually was seriously wrong. And there were a few tests that I still hadn't heard the results on.
A little history: Years ago, it seems like lifetimes now, although it was not really quite that long, I had tests and procedures and such. I took hormones, and pills and had things removed and frozen. I had always just assumed that if the "Big C" ever came to get me, it would get me in the same place. It's fairly common, and I expected it.
After I had my youngest, I did the routine post delivery check up. Things looked fine, in fact, more normal than they ever had, so I felt confident. Headaches that started shortly thereafter, the night sweats, the hot flashes, things late or missing - well, maybe it was normal. I didn't really know anyone who had had a tubal before, how was I to know what I could expect?
Things changed over time though, got more intense. I never scheduled another yearly appointment again, even in spite of all of this. Instead, I'd text my best friend if things weirded me out. "Whats this mean?" became the opener of many conversations.
And again, I have found the little path that leads away from my point. Eventually, after much prodding and cajoling and hard hitting attempts to convince me, I ended up at the doctor that September afternoon. Then, it was time to wait.
***
A couple of weeks passed. If you've ever had a test done and you had to wait for the results, you know what it feels like. You jump a little everytime the phone rings, you count down the days til they expected to have them back. When the phone finally does ring and you see THAT NUMBER, you actually hesitate and take a huge breath that you're afraid to exhale for fear of everything crashing down. And you haven't even answered the phone.
I was at work when "the call" came. Not just the "you have results" call. The voicemail left was closer to "you need to call us as soon as you get this." When I got to a phone to return the message, I was never more glad that I had shut myself in my bosses office and she was gone for the day. There is nothing like hearing that your results are back, but that you'll need to make an appointment to discuss them, and we have openings tomorrow, Friday afternoon, if you're able ...
I don't know which emotion hit first, it was something between angry at myself, scared for the girls, and worried about my friends and family. I don't think I cried for an entire week -- nor did I talk to anyone about it. There was nothing to talk about. Yet.
Friday afternoon, under the guise of running an errand, I left work early and went to my doctor's office. There is never a more alone feeling than knowing you're about to hear something so very possibly life changing that you'll wish you had someone by your side just to hold you up. But I didn't have anyone. I was alone in receiving this, just as I would be alone in the fight of it. It is my body that is sick, my mind that has to go through the thoughts, the pain and the sadness and joy of it, so it was only fitting that it was only me who would hear what came next. Fear has never suited me well, and I wasn't about to let it start.
I do feel bad for doctors. I cannot imagine having to tell someone who's children you've delivered, whom you've come to know and joke with and laugh with, that they are sick. I can understand the stammering, the sideways glances, the moments taken to recollect thoughts and choose words. I am also grateful that this friendship is one that I share with my doctor ... I don't know that it would have been easier to have just been "another chart" when I was told.
When he came in, he was more serious than normal. His expression soft, and yet clouded, he started, and didn't mince words. "We think you have cancer."
Now, you remember, I always expected this. From the moment of that first biopsy years before, it had been something I had planned for. I was calm and calculated in my response, enough that I think I surprised him. I had him fooled, but of course, I was a spinning spiral of confusion and fear and the sickening realization that no matter how much you think you expect something, that when it actually happens, you feel like an entire convoy of Mack trucks decided to drive over you and back a few times.
I have family members and friends that recommend taking notes at every appointment. I keep meaning to bring something, but I suppose for me, writing something makes it real, and I don't know that I am ready for all of the numbers and the language to be a part of my reality yet. Because of this, I came away from that appointment firmly believing that I had cervical cancer. Wake up call to me by the next visit.
When I went in again to discuss the ultrasound results, it was obvious, quickly, that I was wrong. I had endometrial (uterine) cancer, and it had spread to my cervix. This was when the first jolt of fear hit me. This was not a part of what I expected at all.
That week, I was noticeably snappy. I was irritable and emotional, the latter of which is not normal for me. I would cry over silly things, oversensitive in my reactions to jokes and normal interactions. Finally, one night, I broke down to another of my closest friends. It was the first time I actually let the fear and sadness and worry of it all overtake me.
... this is all I can emotionally and physically handle tonight, so it is to be continued ...
11/10/09
Emotions
Warning: This blog could contain sudden outbursts of anger and colorful language. Not appropriate for children.
You know who you are,
How can you hate someone who is dead that you love so damn much that it makes it so you can't breathe when you think of them, when you see their name? I do though, I hate you.
I have no idea to this day why I chose him over you. I didn't even know I had you. Isn't that stupid? How did I not see. You came up every damn day after work ... and I assumed it was because we were friends. Nothing more. I was so blinded by the hurt I'd been through I couldn't see that what I wanted was at my front door. After all the years I wanted it for.
And then there was her. I felt obligated. Didn't I owe it to her to give him another chance? To try to make a family work? I'd failed one already. I didn't want to do it again. And I chose him. Over you. Obligation overtook my blinded heart and I walked away from you forever. I did that.
But I had wanted you so long. I can remember every look, every touch, every hug. I remember the night of the accident, the night of New Years, the times at Moms, the way you'd hold my kids, the way you looked when you were in treatment, and not once did I love you any less than I do now. I can see every stage of you, from 16 to 30, and remember every breath as if it were this moment.
And it wish it were. My life stopped on July 16. I felt the truck hit me, the way that everything on this earth crashed into me all at once. And I don't want to let go. I don't want to breathe again. I don't want to wake up past this day and feel anymore, because if I move forward, I am moving farther away from you. And I don't want you to be gone.
You were my compass, my rock. My constant. I longed for you as an angel longs for wings. I could breathe because you did. You loved my children as though they were your own, and in a way, they were. I clung to parts of you I could pass on to them. Did you know that every single one of them has an Irish based name? I chose them for a reason, I felt pulled towards them. I would look at you holding them, playing with them, and I felt something I've never felt before or since. My baby bear especially. She was at home there. Just as I was in your company.
When I heard you'd married, I was startled. It was then that I decided I'd never get married again. And here I was, engaged. I sabotaged left and right, and yet I was a fool. I knew we spoke no more, that the chance had forever passed. Its who you were. I felt like Juliet. Every man I've ever been with knew that my heart belonged to you, that my soul was yours, even though you never knew.
The day you left us, I locked away my heart, my soul. They had lost the other half to themselves, and it feels so unsafe to pull them out, unprotected. I hate that I love you and you're not even here anymore to know or to ever love me back. You weren't supposed to leave.
You weren't my spouse, but in a way, you were. You were what kept me going. The first time I drove to Moms after you passed, I cried. I cried so much I pulled over. If you watched over me at all, you know. I saw trucks like yours, bikes like yours. Your face as I pulled in, your arms around me, your smile. I wanted to die along with you. I cried myself to sleep at night, I felt cold ... alone. And I still do.
I locked myself up, stopped going anywhere. Ignored friends, made bad choices. I became reckless and depressed. I tried time and again to force myself out. I am still trying. Its not working.
I feel so broken. I ignore guys, sabotage dates, find ways to make excuses to be too busy to meet anyone, see anyone. I'm scared to death, to be honest. I don't want anyone to replace you. I don't want to love anymore, to feel anymore.I'd rather stay safe, lonely, and let you live every single day with me because no one is competing for your memory.
I hate that you died. I hate that I never had you. I hate that I am not allowed to feel like this because you were married to someone else. I hate that you're not here to dry my tears and be my rock. I feel like if I move on, that you're so much farther away than you are now, and I can't handle that. I don't think I can really live without you.
I don't know what a day farther from you would feel like. What does it look like? How do I breathe? I know that time is going on, even if I cant move on with it. Don't you see? This is why I hate you. I hate that I love you and because I love you I stopped living.
How do you get to the point where you can live again ... and be ok with the person living through you? How do you make it past the day that they died, and not feel like you will collapse when those milestones hit every month? I haven't figured it out.
I'm so angry, so hurt, so sad. I can't stop tears at random moments. I see your handwriting, and my whole world crashes to a stand still. Someone asks about the kids names and I can barely breathe as I try to explain. I see someone with your name, and I hope against hope that somehow they will become you or be just like you. People bump into people that look like you, and I am jealous of them. What I wouldn't give to see your face, to touch you just one more time. To have a chance to tell you.
And yet, about all of this I feel stupid. Silly even. I have no right to these feelings. I have no right for my life to be on hold.
But it is. And I'm not sure when or if it ever will not be. I'm afraid of what lies beyond this moment, this time. Of what getting past this means. Will I forget you? Will I forget what you felt like? What loving you meant? I can't live a life without that, without you.
I fight this war every night, over living or loving you. Living has yet to win. I've convinced myself that as long as I am alive enough to function for my kids, thats all that matters. Everything else in me can be numb.
I've created a world in which I can talk myself out of everything. Out of every risk, every effort. I give up easily and don't try hard enough. I've convinced myself of the tediousness that is dating and learning another person to escape the hurt that I never knew was possible until you. Until you passed, it was still all a game.
I've created the illusion of busy-ness, so I have an excuse, a way out, without giving it to myself. I am no longer me, and I have no idea who I am without you breathing the same air, looking at the same stars, sleeping under the same moon. I am adrift, lost, and without a compass.
I hide away the emotions behind a dam of epic proportions. To let the tsunami loose is to risk ... and I can't allow myself to risk, when I don't even know who I am when you don't exist. If there is a balance, a way to exist and let go, I've not found it yet. Looking for it ... might just be too scary.
You know who you are,
How can you hate someone who is dead that you love so damn much that it makes it so you can't breathe when you think of them, when you see their name? I do though, I hate you.
I have no idea to this day why I chose him over you. I didn't even know I had you. Isn't that stupid? How did I not see. You came up every damn day after work ... and I assumed it was because we were friends. Nothing more. I was so blinded by the hurt I'd been through I couldn't see that what I wanted was at my front door. After all the years I wanted it for.
And then there was her. I felt obligated. Didn't I owe it to her to give him another chance? To try to make a family work? I'd failed one already. I didn't want to do it again. And I chose him. Over you. Obligation overtook my blinded heart and I walked away from you forever. I did that.
But I had wanted you so long. I can remember every look, every touch, every hug. I remember the night of the accident, the night of New Years, the times at Moms, the way you'd hold my kids, the way you looked when you were in treatment, and not once did I love you any less than I do now. I can see every stage of you, from 16 to 30, and remember every breath as if it were this moment.
And it wish it were. My life stopped on July 16. I felt the truck hit me, the way that everything on this earth crashed into me all at once. And I don't want to let go. I don't want to breathe again. I don't want to wake up past this day and feel anymore, because if I move forward, I am moving farther away from you. And I don't want you to be gone.
You were my compass, my rock. My constant. I longed for you as an angel longs for wings. I could breathe because you did. You loved my children as though they were your own, and in a way, they were. I clung to parts of you I could pass on to them. Did you know that every single one of them has an Irish based name? I chose them for a reason, I felt pulled towards them. I would look at you holding them, playing with them, and I felt something I've never felt before or since. My baby bear especially. She was at home there. Just as I was in your company.
When I heard you'd married, I was startled. It was then that I decided I'd never get married again. And here I was, engaged. I sabotaged left and right, and yet I was a fool. I knew we spoke no more, that the chance had forever passed. Its who you were. I felt like Juliet. Every man I've ever been with knew that my heart belonged to you, that my soul was yours, even though you never knew.
The day you left us, I locked away my heart, my soul. They had lost the other half to themselves, and it feels so unsafe to pull them out, unprotected. I hate that I love you and you're not even here anymore to know or to ever love me back. You weren't supposed to leave.
You weren't my spouse, but in a way, you were. You were what kept me going. The first time I drove to Moms after you passed, I cried. I cried so much I pulled over. If you watched over me at all, you know. I saw trucks like yours, bikes like yours. Your face as I pulled in, your arms around me, your smile. I wanted to die along with you. I cried myself to sleep at night, I felt cold ... alone. And I still do.
I locked myself up, stopped going anywhere. Ignored friends, made bad choices. I became reckless and depressed. I tried time and again to force myself out. I am still trying. Its not working.
I feel so broken. I ignore guys, sabotage dates, find ways to make excuses to be too busy to meet anyone, see anyone. I'm scared to death, to be honest. I don't want anyone to replace you. I don't want to love anymore, to feel anymore.I'd rather stay safe, lonely, and let you live every single day with me because no one is competing for your memory.
I hate that you died. I hate that I never had you. I hate that I am not allowed to feel like this because you were married to someone else. I hate that you're not here to dry my tears and be my rock. I feel like if I move on, that you're so much farther away than you are now, and I can't handle that. I don't think I can really live without you.
I don't know what a day farther from you would feel like. What does it look like? How do I breathe? I know that time is going on, even if I cant move on with it. Don't you see? This is why I hate you. I hate that I love you and because I love you I stopped living.
How do you get to the point where you can live again ... and be ok with the person living through you? How do you make it past the day that they died, and not feel like you will collapse when those milestones hit every month? I haven't figured it out.
I'm so angry, so hurt, so sad. I can't stop tears at random moments. I see your handwriting, and my whole world crashes to a stand still. Someone asks about the kids names and I can barely breathe as I try to explain. I see someone with your name, and I hope against hope that somehow they will become you or be just like you. People bump into people that look like you, and I am jealous of them. What I wouldn't give to see your face, to touch you just one more time. To have a chance to tell you.
And yet, about all of this I feel stupid. Silly even. I have no right to these feelings. I have no right for my life to be on hold.
But it is. And I'm not sure when or if it ever will not be. I'm afraid of what lies beyond this moment, this time. Of what getting past this means. Will I forget you? Will I forget what you felt like? What loving you meant? I can't live a life without that, without you.
I fight this war every night, over living or loving you. Living has yet to win. I've convinced myself that as long as I am alive enough to function for my kids, thats all that matters. Everything else in me can be numb.
I've created a world in which I can talk myself out of everything. Out of every risk, every effort. I give up easily and don't try hard enough. I've convinced myself of the tediousness that is dating and learning another person to escape the hurt that I never knew was possible until you. Until you passed, it was still all a game.
I've created the illusion of busy-ness, so I have an excuse, a way out, without giving it to myself. I am no longer me, and I have no idea who I am without you breathing the same air, looking at the same stars, sleeping under the same moon. I am adrift, lost, and without a compass.
I hide away the emotions behind a dam of epic proportions. To let the tsunami loose is to risk ... and I can't allow myself to risk, when I don't even know who I am when you don't exist. If there is a balance, a way to exist and let go, I've not found it yet. Looking for it ... might just be too scary.
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