Further Proof I Still Got It, and By "It" I Mean More Hormones Than You Can Shake a Radioactive Isotope At

I have spent the last three days crying, alternately sobbing with the rushing force of hope (having suddenly changed to relief) being released from four months of confinement, bawling from the crushing pressure of as many months of sometimes invisible but still unimaginable, incalculable, unbearable stress, and weeping at nearly everything else (today's PostSecret, old eps of Grey's Anatomy, the sweet sounds of my daughter babbling to herself).

"You're probably just hormonal," said Mom. Unfortunately, if Jody had said that, it probably would have been a whole lot less well received, but he wouldn't have been less right.

And though I can rarely recognize the symptoms initially on my own, I think she's right. Yeah, I've been through a lot these last couple of weeks, but I am still being a bit irrational in my reaction to some things.

So of course my next thought is: What does my constant crying mean, if anything? Am I, after all this, still whole? I know what all the docs said at the beginning and I eventually accepted it* but things keep happening to contradict them, so:

Will someone please just tell me if I will ever to be able to have babies again?

*Or so I thought.


Anonymous said...

I have nothing really of use to say, except that I don't think you can underestimate the strain on your emotional state of the past few months. A lot of crying seems to be the most normal and reasonalbe response.

Ed said...

Agreeing with anonymous above, I would add that the act of crying was an incredible release for me. I am not generally a cry-er (ask my wife and family), but the unbelievability of my initial diagnosis as a Stage I or II adenocarcinoma of the rectum, followed immediately by major surgery and a pathology report of Stage IIIb colon cancer (10 of 23 lymph nodes with cancer involvement), followed by extensive national discussion of my treatment (rectal cancer does not equal colon cancer), followed by chemo-hell whacked the crap out of me (literally and figuratively). On walks around a local park I would cry most of the way - managing only to compose myself in time to return to my wife and 8 y.o. daughter. But I think it helped more than it didn't.

Meaning is to be found where we look, and looking is sometimes a very difficult activity. Sometimes the thing that we find is not what we thought we were looking for... I cannot know how strongly you feel about the biological part of children - but I can say that in the absence of adoption, I would not know anything of the joy of parenting. You CAN have another baby, and maybe even the natural way. But even if your plumbing is a mess from this sidetrack adventure, there are other ways to raise children... if you look for them.

After so much unnervingly good news this week for you, I just wanted to share my thoughts about this hugely important aspect of you (and I don't even KNOW you, personally, but feel like I know you bloggishly). Good luck, find peace with your body, cry as much and often as you need, and keep sharing your anxious world with us.