Sadness

This is not what I want to write.

In 2019, I asked for a referral to an expert bowel surgeon in another city. In 2020, we drove to Calgary and had a consult with him. My expectations were high, my hands were full of charts of my careful documentation of pain levels and medications, and symptoms. After an examination and tests, he decided that referring me to a reconstructive surgeon in my city would be the better idea.

Then covid hit.

It’s 2023 and I finally met her, the reconstructive surgeon.

Again, I had files of information and documented symptoms in Randy's (my husband's) bag in case she needed more proof of the pain that I’d been in. She spent an hour with us. She was kind and compassionate and professional. Then she said the words that I hate hearing, that I’ve heard so many times . . . “There’s nothing I can do right now to fix this for you.” She handed me Kleenex and gently described the plan of expert resources she is setting me up with, some of the best physiotherapists, pharmacists, a new surgeon, and a dietician that can offer help. I am grateful, but as soon as any doctor closes a file, or sets a paper down in their lap and folds their hands on top, I don’t hear much more they say from that point on because, I know what it means.

In 1994, I got a phone call from a very harsh surgeon who did my first laparoscopy. She said, “Heather, I have the results of the surgery.” I sat down on my living room floor. She continued, “You have a CHRONIC disease called Endometriosis. It is a very painful disease and there is no cure. The only thing you can do is get pregnant, take male hormones, or have a hysterectomy. All these options will relieve your pain a little. “

Thankfully there are better approaches to it now, but it is REALLY, REALLY, RARE, that someone with endometriosis can permanently relieve pain. It is a hard diagnosis to receive.

I am usually a bit more optimistic about it, but today, I’m sad. I’m completely sad. I took my glasses off while I was typing because they just kept fogging up with my tears.

I’m learning how to be sad.

It wasn’t modeled well for me in the 70s and I know that it still is difficult for some to know what to say so they say nothing or slap a Bible verse on or something perky. I’ve done it too, to myself and others.

I think the fear is that sadness feels like it will go too deep, too fast. I understand that.

But I think what I’ve been missing, is the richness of sadness which is, in the words of a friend who said about waiting, “it is a full act”. It is. And after a day of tears and rehydration, I know that I will always feel better.

Today, I’m alone because my husband is teaching a workshop. He left before I was out of bed and I’m still in bed. It’s 2 pm. I’ve got a pile of Kleenex beside me, my breakfast plate, and a thermos of coffee that is now emptied. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m in my bed, with a cool fan on my face, a massager on my lower back, pain meds now fully activated, and swollen eyes from the crying, which is now just a slow tear drip from one of my eyes at a time. It is slowing.

I’m learning from my counselor to live with “AND”.

So today, I am sad AND I’m going over to my inlaws tonight to be with the family that’s in town to celebrate a 91st birthday.

I’m still in bed AND will get out eventually.

I’m sad AND I have joy in my life more profound than this sadness can touch.

I’m grieving the original diagnosis of 30 years ago each time the doctor is unable to provide a solution for my pain that is quick or final AND I know how to manage the pain and do enjoyable things.

I’m angry at God today AND I love him and trust him.

I feel depleted and empty and lonely and discouraged AND I know this emotion is temporary. I will reach out to my loving group of friends and family soon and reengage in the life that I love.

But for now, I am sad AND ok.

I think sometimes I miss the richness and depths of what it means to be sad. We all know how crappy it feels to be comforted by someone who has not been there. It’s so light and sugary, it is distasteful. And I’ve done it. I’ve sprinkled sugar on someone’s grief just because I didn’t want to see it or hear it so I sugared it to make it more palatable for me. But that’s just selfish.

I’m not going to eat a tub of ice cream today. I think that one can stay in the movies. That’s not compassionate to me, not self-care. It’s kind of self-sabotage. I don’t want to do that.

I wish we had more rituals in our culture. I mean, when I hear from the doctor that she’s going to keep me on strong meds, that morphine will help me for a while (which I appreciate), that physio and a dietitian and a third consult with a bowel surgeon (another waiting season) will be helpful but that nothing will remove the disease or the wreckage that the disease has caused and the many surgeries have caused, I still have to walk out the same door as I came in and walk past the gift shop at the hospital and the staff at the front door. I mean, what if there was a ritual of sadness that was honored? Maybe it seems crazy to you and perhaps it will be to me too after I write this out, but let’s just imagine for a minute.

What if any bad news in a hospital or clinic or medical center was honored with a special hallway, private elevators, and a crying room? Ya, maybe it’s crazy, but what if? What if we permitted each other, invited each other, and expected each other to be sad through those times? We would allow space to take time off work, or friends would know that we are sad and just show up with tiny gifts of love, food, and their presence. And we would receive it.

I mean, I think, since I started this blog in 2013, this is the first, purely sad post that I’ve written. That shows you how scary it is for me to admit a pure emotion and not be afraid to express it in this way or feel that I need to protect you from it or me. I wanted to encourage others on here. To remind you that you’re not alone in your pain AND also, I wanted a place to talk about it for me, whether anyone read it or not, I wanted, needed to write. But it’s hard. I want to wrap it up with something hopeful and positive so that you don’t feel weird. But I think that the whole point of emotion is that we are allowed to feel it. We were created in the image of God. That means that God created emotions in us because it reflects him. When we hide emotions or call them wrong, we are shutting down part of our reflection of God.

But usually, I write something like this, then edit, edit, maybe go for a counseling session myself, “get a grip”, “wrap my head around it”, and feel happier, then I write this with some substance, a gift for you.

Today, I’m thinking, I might just leave it as is.

Maybe, allowing myself to feel sad as a “full act”, is still hopeful because it’s not the final act.

And now, to get out of bed, because there is a celebration of the 91st birthday of my father-in-law that I don’t want to miss!!