Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Tough Day

I recently made an interesting personal observation: I don't cry much these days. I compare to 5 years ago, when my sister was dying of cancer, my mother was losing her mind with Alzheimer's, but just coherent enough for Teri's illness to be new and shocking to her every day, and my son was preparing to go to Iraq.

I cried a lot then, but oddly enough, still mostly in private. I usually cried in the car. I cried when I drove from home to Mom, then I bucked up and dealt with things. I cried between Mom and Teri's house, then got my shit together. I cried from Teri's to work, where I pulled it together to put in my 8 hours. 

A week from now will mark the 5-year anniversary of Teri's passing. She died on Labor Day Weekend, and, while she is always on my mind, I feel like she's sitting on my soul every year at this time. 5 years. I can't believe it. I reflect on our daily conversations, and how she actually wondered where we would each be after this much time. I often wish I could tell her that it's no easier now than it was on Day 1.

It remains to be seen, however, that all of those terrible circumstances that had me bonking into walls in 2009 don't exist, and life is good, and I laugh now, much more than I cry.

However. 5 years! She's been on my mind, with this "landmark" anniversary. I can hardly believe it.


This morning I walked into Carle Clinic for a doctor appt., and was directed to a self-check-in. Upon verifying my identity, a screen popped up: Is this still your Emergency Contact? It was Teri. Teri's first and last name. Teri's address, and her phone number and her work phone number, and her relationship to me.

It hit me in the gut. I added Clint as my Emergency Contact. And then there were 2: Clint and Teri. I stood there, and hit the giant red "X" next to Teri's name. I scanned my card, printed my receipt, and went upstairs.


Perimenopause, my diagnosis is, from one of the nicest Ob-Gyn doctors I have ever met. Exactly what I expected. There is medication for my problem (women can guess, men don't want to hear about it)--BUT. But there must be a "procedure" first. A biopsy. Usually a woman has fair warning, and can take some Tylenol ahead of time, but if I want to get this mess taken care of ASAP, we can do it sooner. Like, now. The biopsy is procedural and routine. It allows the doctors and powers that be to say, "see? Those meds are the right thing to do, because this over here isn't the problem," when the results come back that there isn't a problem.

I opted for the procedure, sans Tylenol prep. It had to be performed twice, but was over quickly, and was only vaguely uncomfortable. The doctor noted, as she sat me up, that she'd like to clone me as a patient, stoic and calm as I was. 

As the sweet nurse agreed with her, out of nowhere I fell into tears. I mean, I. lost. it. The ugly cry. The two of them stood there, stunned. I knew my behavior was a surprise, but the more I tried to compose myself, the harder I cried. 

I finally managed to get out that Teri was still my Emergency Contact, and that I was feeling fragile when I walked in. And then ticking off my family's medical history--all of them essentially gone--when I'm naked but for a sheet, is hard every time I go to the doctor. Followed up by an on-the-spot decision about a medical procedure, and finding the statement "this really is a crazy amount of blood" both vindicating and unnerving--well, I guess I just lost my ability to buck up.


It's a strange mix: grief and hormones and aging and life's natural progression. While I felt a bit undone this morning, I know that women my age are losing their composure in clinics all over the world, and I'm not the first patient my doctor has ever watched burst into tears. I'm 51 and fabulous, dammit, and all of this is not unexpected. I drove myself home, just fine, in need of an afternoon's sleep, and that was it. 

As tough a morning as it was, in the end, I can only circle back to how this post began: I don't cry much, these days, and I cherish that. One "public" outburst is pish-posh after the seasoned veteran I became in 2009. The pendulum may swing back to tough times some day, but in the meantime, I appreciate where I am right now.

Also, I miss my sister.