Damn, I am so sad.
My willingness to feel this sadness came while I was in her bed with Maybelle. "Snuggle," she requested as I was drying her off. A snuggle sounds good to me, so of course I did. We read three books, and at that point she was exhausted, so she turned on the white noisemaker, turned off her bedlight, and in minutes she was asleep. I was lying beside her, smelling her sweet hair, listening to her breathing, feeling how long her legs are as one of her feet is pressing into my lower leg.
I wanted to fall asleep there with her, but the sadness is what emerged.
I lay there in bed and thought about Maybelle. I felt--feel--really happy about her, imagining what her life is like. I was even happy recognizing how irritating she could be. And then I felt sick with sadness about the fact that I won't be in her life. I'm glad that I'll die before she does, no matter what, but I want to see her more, longer.
Okay, as I wrote this sentence I realized that my parents are hoping that, too, with all their kids--that my parents will die before we do. But my parents know that I might die before they do. That has to be especially painful.
Sadness. Other thoughts that emerged while I was with Maybelle: writing. I love to write, and I'm still able to do it, but communication is often very challenging. I know I've talked with you about this--I know that I've written this multiple times--but I don't care. I hate having to read three times before I feel I can sending things. When I don't edit edit edit, the message is often really confusing in some places.
Cindi was with me and my neuro-oncologist yesterday, before my chemo got shoved into my chest, and she was talking about communication. "Sometimes what she emails has parts that I can't really follow," she told him. I immediately said that was because I sent something quickly, without going over it again and again. Only friends. Neuro-oncologist-Scott nodded and said that I'm probably going to be up and down in my communication. He's a really honest guy, so he went on saying that it's possible that my communication is going to continue being harder, but he said it's almost certain that I'm going to be feeling better at my next meeting with him. "Today is hard, but I've seen harder writing from you a couple of months ago."
Next I thought about sadness with my teaching. I've done the foolish thing of teaching a brand new course this semester. What was I thinking? The students are great. They learned about my brain tumor, and they've asked a lot of questions. They're on board, helping this class to go along well. And it is going well. But on Tuesday, two days ago, I felt sad when the class left. I wasn't furious or guilty--I just felt sad. Like I'm not quite there. Like this is the person I am now, a person who should only teach a class once a semester.
And what's happening?
When I learned that the tumor was growing, I cried and cried. A few days later I was on the porch, on our new house, a house that was there to be together with Maybelle, Brian, and I. Maybelle was asleep, and I sat sobbing.
This is how I'm feeling tonight. I'm not in the place of explaining things, where people ask were I am and I said, "I'm okay." Right now I'm not feeling like it's okay. Right now I'm sad.