Saturday, October 22, 2016

What breaks me (Warning, seriously depressing blogpost)


I told someone at dinner last night that I cry at least once a day. I think it took them by surprise, which took me by surprise. I have no formal training in despair, but man do I feel like I should have a key to the city. I’m sharing this post, because it’s become increasingly clear to me that I’m not alone. There are other patients and advocates who face impossible situations and loose their minds a little bit at a time, or all together every time the silence hits. I’m sharing this because it’s so hard to talk about. I actually can’t talk about it. I can’t get through the first sentence in the following paragraph without completely breaking down. I’m sharing this because I believe with everything that I am that it’s ok to be broken, that you can’t always be fixed, but that you can still move forward, no matter what.

This is what breaks me:

That time when I skyped with a dying child trying to give her hope when she couldn’t even move her head to face the computer screen. Massaging Laurens swollen legs as she lay in bitter pain days before she died. Reading a facebook message that my friend had died and left her daughter who was also dying. The daughters funeral. The phone call from a frantic stepdad who needed his dying wife to live so that their 8 year old daughter didn’t go back to her abusive father after his wife died. That text from my young dying friend that her kid brother died. All of the parents who lost their babies. Even if their babies were grown. But oh my god, the young ones. All of the cancer parents who had to look at their children’s faces with dying eyes. Knowing more then one family that lost two children within a year of each other. Eating dinner with a friend who lost his wife, and hearing how her ear fell off in front of him as angiosarcoma ate her face away.  All of the people who held so tightly to hope that their fingers bled.


There are countless others, each just as devastating. There are no words to make any of it ok. None. I think we shield ourselves so desperately from death that we’ve never developed the right words to even speak about it.  So when I talk with my friends who are loosing their minds, all I can say is that I understand. I can give them hugs. I can shed tears with them. I can try and fail to let go with them.  I can stamp these words into the ethersphere in order to talk, even when I can’t with my voice. I can try and let them know that they are not alone as they break and that I'll help them collect the shards of glass in the aftermath. 

We may cry every single day because we know that we are helpless when tragedy brushes up against us, but I'll tell you what, I wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would my friends who get this completely.

Here's to life, health, and happiness, and in all other times to kleenex. 




17 comments:

  1. To life, health and happiness my friend... You do not cry alone.

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  2. To life, health and happiness my friend... You do not cry alone.

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  3. Being a patient/activist with a deadly cancer means living with a series of losses. Sometimes it's overwhelming, and we can't go on. When we cry together and share our pain, we can go on.
    Thanks for sharing.

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    1. I was inspired to write this by you friend.

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  4. I had to walk away from the computer for a minute -- my crying upset my Chihuahua. I was a professional journalist, but it's different now, writing at home and feeling so alone sometimes.

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    1. im so sorry that you ever have to feel alone, I hope your writing connects you to others who understand

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  5. I am a blubbering mess, but sometimes crying feels so good!!! I cry everyday too...and oddly not for myself but for the families I've come across, and my children...I cry for them every single day!! And when I tell families or someone that I will pray for them I do...It's all I have to give and I give it!! Just like you are an amazing advocate for us, I remember talking on the phone with you the day I found out it was in my liver...I think I needed u more then I knew!!you are fantastic

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    1. Big giant hugs momma, I need one from you in real life!!

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  6. I read this twice. Its profound and grounding. Thank you so much for your perspective. Your words were raw beautiful. As the father of a beautiful 30 yr old daughter with angiosarcoma, theres nothing more terrifying and numbingly sad than to contemplate the future.It cannot be ignored.The fear, grief and sadness seem to visit on their own schedule. Sometimes I just cant do anything but succumb to the emotions and break down....by 'sometimes',I mean pretty much almost daily...some days its a quick adrenaline racing moment, other days its one or a series of quiet meltdowns.Your words are a comfort. They are wonderful reminder that we arent alone, and that many are having a much rougher time than we are...the overwhelm that breaks us all sometimes is a common thread that runs thru all of our lives...whether we are caretakers or patients,we break.Thank you for making me feel sane. Thank you for the reminder to keep moving forward no matter what. Life is beautiful.

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    1. I love this comment, everything except the reason why we're connected of course.

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  8. Thank you, Corrie, for putting this out into the world. Yes, I get this completely. No I wouldn't have it any other way. But man, oh man oh man, it hurts doesn't it? Sending love and hugs, and kleenex ;) XOXOXO -liza

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  9. Thank you, Corrie, for putting this out into the world. Yes, I get this completely. No I wouldn't have it any other way. But man, oh man oh man, it hurts doesn't it? Sending love and hugs, and kleenex ;) XOXOXO -liza

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    1. Oh I know you do sister love. Big hugs xoxo

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  10. Replies
    1. I think I shared before that my husband doesn't understand why I am involved with this group. After all, I am NED and no sense in attracting this to you through the group. What???!!! I MUST and I WILL support and pray and cry for you and if I can help, I will.

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    2. I understand that, I've been under that same 'why are you doing that' pressure before. I think you need to walk in our shoes to truly understand

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