This morning I had a checkup to see how Tamara is progressing. When I went to the doctor in early May I was horrified when I was diagnosed with a baseball sized cyst on my right ovary. The doctor told … Continue reading
In the 48 hours since finding out that I have a mass on my ovary, I have been surprisingly calm about it. I have tried to keep the mindset of “we don’t know anything yet, there is nothing to worry about.”
This morning I woke up with chest pains, a tight throat, and a heavy heart. I’m scared. I’m really really scared about what the next few days will hold, and depending on the diagnosis, what the next few weeks and months will entail. I have been confined to my bed all weekend as to not aggravate “Tamara” and it has been too much time to sit and think about possible outcomes.
I’ll go a few minutes without thinking about it, and it feels great! Then I will change positions in the bed, and the feeling of a rock in my abdomen quickly reminds me that there is something there, something that does not belong.
48 hours is a long time to keep a brave face when every single dreadful minute is filled with worry and fear. I got out of the shower this morning and in my empty house, finally let myself cry. It felt good, really good to let everything out. As humans I feel it is our natural tendency to hold back tears, they are regarded as weakness. But, with each tear held back, I felt like more pressure was building up in my chest. I feel angry because I am scared to cough, sneeze, or laugh. I feel angry because I am nauseous and a little lightheaded and don’t know if these are symptoms of the mass, or just my own anxieties.
Immediately after that emotional release, I felt a weight lifted. It’s okay to cry, to be scared, and worry. Sure, this mass might be completely harmless and a month from now this will all be a distant memory. Or…it may be more complicated, but I guess I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I am going to try and keep words like “cancer” and “infertility” out of my head. Nothing is known yet.
I can already breathe easier, and my tight throat has released. I’m going to continue being brave, but still let the tears come when they want to.
My mind keeps going back to this quote I saw online the other day:
“Crying doesn’t indicate that you are weak.
Since birth, it has always been a sign that you’re alive.”
How I thought today was going to go: Wake up, work at the school from 8-5, work at the restaurant from 5-11, come home, relax with Isaac, sleep. How today actually went: Woke up at 6:30am sobbing because of abdominal … Continue reading