My Sadness

Buried Beneath the Covers

Sometimes, my sadness arrives cloaked in a dark, weighted cape. It pulls me down and strangles me, squishing me until tears run from my eyes.

Photo by Trym Nilsen on Unsplash

Sadness is lonely. It prefers to see me sit in isolation than with any family or any friends. Sadness keeps my mind hyperfocused on staying stationary, suffocating, drowning rather than pushing or leaning forward. Sadness presses hard on me to disconnect rather than stay connected to others.

Sadness renders me incapable of rationale thought and shackles me in shame.

It is opportunistic, so when I am physically at my weakest, it leverages its power and elevates its voice. It whispers to me that my support group has had enough. They are tired of my tears. They are tired of my darkness. They are tired of hearing about what I cannot do, tired of hearing me lament about my losses rather than my gains. Sadness states with authority that my family and friends are tired of my pain. They are tired of seeing me suffer. They are tired of me and all that I bring.

They are tired of my story… the pages never ending.

Sadness seduces me into thinking that sharing my insecurities and vulnerablities drive people away. That my friends and family would prefer I consistently bathe them in happiness and gratitude rather than my reality where times of brightness are countered with dark, deep wells where no lightness penetrates. Living with a chronic disease means visiting places where I am shrouded in fatigue, discomfort and loneliness. You look so much prettier when you smile. My brain stuck on a repeating soundtrack of negativity. Sadness whispers that I should remain in the darkness, buried beneath a blanket staring off into a void. All alone. Its voice so powerful that I feel incapable of doing anything… for action requires energy, and sadness sucks it all away.

Fortunately, I have a friend who contintually repeats, “Trust your intuition. You know what you need. Listen to yourself. Pay attention. It is within.”

I do have a deep understanding of how to be intentional with myself, how to advocate for myself and for the care that I need… especially now as the physical demands of my health are so great. When Sadness opens its arms and embraces me, I see my time with him as temporary and as short-lived. Although he prefers my entrapment, I refuse to get stuck.

I reach out to people and share my heart with them. The heaviness of it. Its true weight. My struggles. My truth. My fears. I allow the tears to fall and my pain to be felt. I step into my insecurities and vulnerabilities knowing it allows people to connect with me and offers opportunities for genuine extensions of empathy and kindness. These become a salve to my wounds and forces Sadness away.

Today, Sadness visited me once again….

6:00 AM Sadness and I get out of bed. I was not aware that he began nestling me last night, but it was not a surprise given the bone discomfort that has been keeping me from restorative sleep now for several nights. I have recently introduced a steady dose of Tylenol into my diet to keep the achiness in my hips, shoulders, knees, and lower back just out of reach. My recent PET scan verifying the new and growing tumors settling on my bones.

Sadness recognized my fatigue and capitalized on the opportunity.

Early this morning, sitting in the living room, along with my cup of coffee, Sadness soothed,“You poor, poor thing. Trapped in this ugly cycle of cancer trying your best to mitigate the side effects of this pernicious disease knowing no matter how hard you try, you are trapped. You know it will not get better. What is the point? How long can you take it? Why do you even try? How bad is “bad enough” before you can’t take it anymore? No one understands. Your days are a series of Ground Hog’s experiences…rewind, repeat and so very boring. Why do you try knowing it won’t get better?”

The seduction of the siren is real. Sadness tells me that I have an “out” that there is a logical reason that he has become more of a constant companion now than any other time in my life. You have cancer. You have cancer that is UNCURABLE. You have “fought” bravely and for a long, damn time. You have earned the right to feel sorry for yourself. Your life is so very small compared to what it once was. You are tired. You are uncomfortable. You are soooooo sick of being and feeling sick. Everything feels big and overwhelming.

And thus I begin my day with a choice:

1. Do I cuddle with Sadness all day long by going back to bed comforted by the blankets and tear-soaked pillow beneath my face?

OR

2. Do I intentionally implement strategies to shift Sadness out of this place of predominance and me into a space that feels a little lighter?

Thankfully, I have the capacity to choose.

Photo by Trym Nilsen on Unsplash

And with tears running down my face, I decide on #2. I decide to say yes when all I want to do is say no. I throw out some asks. I admit I need help, and I am explicit with what I find most helpful, and when they come in, I answer calls rather than simply ignoring them.

So in gratitude,

Thank you Theresa for being flexible with your time by coming over to workout with me as planned but by also giving me an extra half an hour of prep time before we began. This morning your stories and energy helped me begin to shake the darkness from my mood. I saw you surrepetitiously drop the bag of yellow banana Laffy Taffy into my cup. At the end of our workout, you cleaned up the gym for both of us, and a couple hours later, I found you at my front door dropping off spears of grape tomatoes, basil and cubes of mozarella. You nurtured me wholistically today.

Thank you Aaron for circling around throughout the day - your constant pacing outside in the gym, downstairs when I crashed, crying on the couch, upstairs when l was able to make a move up the stairs, and out on the deck finding a spot in the chair to hang out a little gauging how I was doing, made a difference. You always make sure I have someone with whom to talk throughout my hardest, saddest days even if that means you remaining indoors with me far more than you prefer. You check the temperature in the room cooling it when it becomes stuffy and warming it up when it is too cold. You make sure I have enough water to drink, and that today I stayed on top of the Tylenol to keep my pain at bay. You blow down the deck and my gym area almost daily making sure it is a comfortable, clean space for me to be outside. I know it is hard for you to see me cry for you are a fixer and cancer is something that you cannot fix. I see you.

Thank you Jennifer for picking up the phone and listening. My voice cracked in pain and sorrow. How many times have you weathered this storm? “Oh, Julie. What’s wrong?” And you listen. You don’t try and fix. You just listen. You empathize and say you are sorry I have to go through all that I do. You are witness to the ugly and recognize how hard ugly is for me. That alone is a lot. You send recipes to Austin knowing how I am sick of barbecue ribs and tater tots for dinner (Aaron’s favorite go to meal) as I balance feelings of being thankful he is cooking with feelings of disgust by the quantities of meat he stores in our freezer and that he counts frozen corn as a vegetable everytime I ask for one.

Thank you Austin for getting up and making me breakfast. My body was craving nutritious food. You made exactly what I asked for stovetop oatmeal topped with sliced bananas, milk and a little brown sugar. Your addition of chia seeds sprinkled on top was absolutely perfect and filled my body with goodness. You went to the grocery store filling a couple bags with fresh vegetables and fruits. And the split pea soup with carrots, celery, onions and thinly sliced Italian sausage you made for dinner, I enjoyed very much. I appreciate your cooking skills extend beyond barbecue sauce and meat.

Thank you Patricia for calling as you know sometimes texting is just not enough. Sadness almost kept me from answering. When you asked how I was feeling, and I responded candidly by telling you I was keeping myself busy crying on the couch, embraced in Sadness’ long, stretchy arms, you thanked me. You identified how my ability to be real, and raw with others, helps others to be real and raw with themselves. You repeatedly and kindly tell me how I show up with both my clean AND and my messy sides and this in turn helps you to take risks with others. You bring another perspective to my life and living that I am grateful to experience.

And, thank you Valerie for picking up a Starbucks’ Medicine tea for me and hanging out on my deck. You gave me your time, and I know that with being a single mom with two young kids, time is a precious resource. When I said yes to your visit, it made me shower and brush my teeth which sometimes Sadness keeps me from accomplishing. I enjoyed Tatum and Amani playing charades with us (pole dancing the most memorable “catch phrase”). Tatum watering my plants, a concerted effort when it came to filling and lugging the oversized watercan up my backsteps, he did so without complaint. You have amazing children Val. You really do. Having someone to share stories, laughs and be out in the sunshine, all helped me focus on something and someone other than myself.

Sometimes, my sadness arrives cloaked in a dark, weighted cape. It pulls me down and strangles me, squishing me until tears run from my eyes. It makes life feel overwhelming and hard. Today Sadness woke up with me and demanded my attention. And while, it was hard, I was able to shift away from his plans.

I know Sadness will always be there, sometimes he makes his presence more evident than others. But, along with Sadness there is Happiness, Hope and Joy who I find far more easy and far more enjoyable to hang with.

Tomorrow, I look forward to waking up with one of them.