DAR #20: Saturday night I was so tired I cried. Sobbed. I don’t cry often, which I say not with pride but just as a matter of fact. Apparently, depression is common with people who’ve had brain tumors, so it’s good to cry, kind of like other folks eating their veggies, but I just don’t very often. And sometimes I cry for hope rather than fear. I'm not sure if that still counts.
I didn't cry much before my brain surgery either. I cried from fear when I got married (perhaps I should have paid more attention), divorced and even more when I came out (as a lesbian, not a debutante). I have always cried with that surge of hope when women’s professional basketball team starting line-ups are announced at the beginning of a game (I’m sure some therapist would love to interpret that.) I also cry when our congregation, a mix of folks devoted to social justice including many GLBTQ individuals and families, sing the hymn, "We Shall Overcome." I know it’s not my story, but when I sing, “Deep in my heart, I still believe, that we shall overcome some day,” I get choked up.
So I suppose it’s not surprising that there have been some tears with these tumors. I cried (both Ann and I did) when the eye surgeon told us that she might not be able to restore my ability to see with both eyes. I cried when I got so frustrated learning to walk again that I thought I might never do it. When I had the piggy flu, pneumonia and had started radiation I cried because I felt so crummy and was afraid this might be how it would be from that point on. I cried (we both did) when we learned I had a second tumor. Oh, and I cry at any tv show where someone has a brain tumor (“Six Feet Under”,” Gray’s Anatomy”…)
I cried (we both did) for joy when, after my second eye muscle surgery, the surgeon removed my bandage and I could see just one of Ann with both eyes. We cried when I walked without my walker (but with a lot of weights) the first time. I cried a couple of weeks ago when Ann put clean sheets on the bed. That seemed like the nicest thing that anyone had ever done for me.
And I suspect we’ll both cry if, on April 12, we learn that this round of radiation worked and the tumor is melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.
In this Easter week, here’s to tears of fear and hope--Mary
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Speaking of crying out loud, where the heck is everybody? I got home from Vietnam yesterday expecting to catch up on a week of blog entries. Mary is diligently doing her part but there were hardly any comments posted. Rebeca, Jane, Pam etc. where the heck are you??
ReplyDeleteI am feeling a bit drunk at the moment but have not had one drop of alcohol in days: this is pure jet lag. I really shouldn't be trusted on the computer and I certainly will not try to pay bills or make any internet purchases in this condition. But I couldn't resist a plea to Mary's blog community: COME BACK! :)
Susan, you raise an excellent point. I for one, have NOT been reading Mary's blog as of late. I am a slacker. I have been catching up on all of the entries I have missed today (procrastinating rather than working).
ReplyDeleteMore from me in the margins as I feel so inspired. Right now I think I might just go have a good cry.