I told me therapist today after all the explanation that I was just filled with disappointment and grief and sadness.
Ten minutes before therapy, I received the news over the phone, of course unpredicted that none of the embryos from the most recent egg retrieval cycle made it. All that money gone. All that effort. Of course, I have been trying to tell myself that it’s fine, that could happen. But the first time, it was better. What happened this time?
I knew going into it that chances were slim for my age. And everything.
Of course, everything was built into one another. It had been two weeks since I had therapy and in that time, I got angry at people for being so boring/shallow…so disappointing. I stared at David last week during the watch and he made some comment about hope the day after my egg retrieval and I sniped back. What hope? I said. You’re trying to tell me to feel something. But that’s what anybody would say, he protested.
But maybe I would have been gentler because I had realized weeks after my surgery that he did not at all once call me, message me (beyond being part of group chats) to check up on me. I am furious about it. He’s just someone who just enjoys traveling and tasty foods. And I don’t say that lightly.
I am also upset at my parents for being harsh on Chris. And implying that I wasn’t checking up on them. Especially after learning about the tragic deaths of Gene Hackman and his wife. There’s an implication that Chris was wrong in not contacting his mother. Of course, I know rationally that there’s nothing that could have happened. But I am devastated that it has to be this way. That maybe I didn’t push enough. Maybe if I could have forced him to say something then it would have saved her.
But it probably would have been horrible. She would have still hated me. This ice cream girl who she never thought was good enough for him.
And all the debts and definitely dementia.
It’s a tragedy. And there’s too much now.
Oh and of course there’s the cancer. I have survived. At least now. I decided to rip off the bandaid and post on facebook and instagram about it. It’s the one thing that I can control. The one thing that has very good prognosis. I am still here. It’s my way of saying that I need help. It’s also the moment that I can at least give myself a sense that people care and that I have friends.
Sometimes it’s like…what’s the deal, everything is good, fine, secure.
I am tired of work too being pushed around endlessly.
I just want to rest. As I wrote…there’s a time for war and fighting…and then there’s time to rest