My friends keep dying.
Smattered between the 50% off holiday spam emails, are updates from caregivers telling me about loss after loss. Then the upside, the lucky ones if you can call us that, they're coming to me with notices of recurrences, and declines, and paralyzations, and sadness. It's surgeries, and radiation, with chemo complaints. It's all heavy. It's always heavy.
So much sadness.
I am not a timely communicator anymore. I've come to dread my phone, and my computer. I hesitate to connect. I'm a conduit for information, this blog, but it's not without an obvious toll.
Thank you for being patient with my lack of responses to emails, to texts, and unfortunately, I don't see an improvement in my behavior, for clear reasons. I don't want to get swallowed by the sadness, so I must protect myself. That means cutting away on many occasions. Or for long periods of time. And it often means everyone, not just cancer related.
I was blindsided by this diagnosis, and have managed because I've methodically taken one step after the other. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just doing the best that I can, in the situation I'm in. I have zero capability to disconnect, or compartmentalize. I just don't have that talent. And for a girl lacking in the department, this muddled, cancer vortex, can completely disintegrate the heart at the soul of the girl.
I want to know what's going on with my friends, I want to fix it all, I want the hurt to go away for everyone. But's not fixable. Not by my hands. So, instead, I grieve like they do, and wish things were different.
Just after Christmas, my longest running brain tumor friend passed away. She and I had the same diagnosis. Even a very similar pathology. The difference? The location of the tumor. I had no idea she was dangerously close to death. And that's what it is in my world. One minute they're here, and the next they're gone. Poof. We're a highly vulnerable bunch.
My friend's lives are sifting through the slats of my fingertips.
I don't write much these days because it would be much the same thing. If I write, I feel, and sometimes, the only thing I want to feel is my love for Dan. And I cling to it tightly. He's my safe place, my lair, my battery charger; my blanket, and my umbrella. He's the halls that reverberate my laughter.
To all of you, to those who will read this, and for those who might not, I love you all. I think about everyone often, I pray for people, and send them love from my heart to theirs. I might not call or text much, or respond even, to your messages, but I love you no less. I'm just doing the best that I can.
So I'll have a good cry for M, and then I will wash my face, put on some layers, and walk that last Christmas gift down to the post office for a tardy mail.
I'm not sure when I'll write again. (Thank you for understanding.)
With love,
Jess
Smattered between the 50% off holiday spam emails, are updates from caregivers telling me about loss after loss. Then the upside, the lucky ones if you can call us that, they're coming to me with notices of recurrences, and declines, and paralyzations, and sadness. It's surgeries, and radiation, with chemo complaints. It's all heavy. It's always heavy.
So much sadness.
I am not a timely communicator anymore. I've come to dread my phone, and my computer. I hesitate to connect. I'm a conduit for information, this blog, but it's not without an obvious toll.
Thank you for being patient with my lack of responses to emails, to texts, and unfortunately, I don't see an improvement in my behavior, for clear reasons. I don't want to get swallowed by the sadness, so I must protect myself. That means cutting away on many occasions. Or for long periods of time. And it often means everyone, not just cancer related.
I was blindsided by this diagnosis, and have managed because I've methodically taken one step after the other. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just doing the best that I can, in the situation I'm in. I have zero capability to disconnect, or compartmentalize. I just don't have that talent. And for a girl lacking in the department, this muddled, cancer vortex, can completely disintegrate the heart at the soul of the girl.
I want to know what's going on with my friends, I want to fix it all, I want the hurt to go away for everyone. But's not fixable. Not by my hands. So, instead, I grieve like they do, and wish things were different.
Just after Christmas, my longest running brain tumor friend passed away. She and I had the same diagnosis. Even a very similar pathology. The difference? The location of the tumor. I had no idea she was dangerously close to death. And that's what it is in my world. One minute they're here, and the next they're gone. Poof. We're a highly vulnerable bunch.
My friend's lives are sifting through the slats of my fingertips.
I don't write much these days because it would be much the same thing. If I write, I feel, and sometimes, the only thing I want to feel is my love for Dan. And I cling to it tightly. He's my safe place, my lair, my battery charger; my blanket, and my umbrella. He's the halls that reverberate my laughter.
So I'll have a good cry for M, and then I will wash my face, put on some layers, and walk that last Christmas gift down to the post office for a tardy mail.
I'm not sure when I'll write again. (Thank you for understanding.)
With love,
Jess
