Anger

Today I went to yoga for the first time in probably a month. I sometimes practice yoga at home, but I don't seem to get as much out of it as I do at class. I typically attend Power Yoga, which is really a loose description for anything a little more challenging than meditation up to Ashtanga yoga. Prior to pregnancy with E, I got into the best physical shape of my life with yoga (and Weight Watchers -- but, I don't like to say that because I just think of my aunt who has plugged away at WW for at least 2.5 decades). Anyway, my point wasn't to talk about my fitness regimen prior to E's pregnancy. My point was that when I'm able to complete an entire yoga practice without interruption or distraction, I'm able to release. Toxins. Emotions. Negative energy. I do wish I could bottle the euphoria I feel upon completing a difficult yoga practice. After all, yogis know the best practice carries over into your life off the mat. I'm not there. But I'm grateful for the fleeting moments of clarity, free flowing emotions, and serenity I feel during my time on the mat.

A few weeks ago, I was as close to committing suicide as I've probably ever been in my life. During my yoga practice, I thought about how ridiculous it is that even though surgeons removed cancer from my body last March in order to prevent that cancer from spreading and potentially taking my life, I still think about taking that life anyway. When I was in high school, my mom had cancer and she endured lots of chemo and surgery. I remember thinking that I would one day find my mother dead. Not from the cancer, but from taking her own life. Back then, I had the same thoughts about her that I now have about myself: How does it make any sense that one would fight to save one's life only to consider ending that life months later? I still don't know the answer.



Sometimes my thinking becomes so muddled and cloudy that I actually believe my children would be better off without me. (This post isn't a cry for help and you shouldn't feel that you need to hire a private eye in order to discover my identity so that you can prevent me from killing myself. I'm currently stable - in a relative sort of way). When I'm in the depths of depression and despair, I often think my living children just cannot live like this anymore. Because I'm unable to maintain focus for more than minutes (hours if I'm lucky), my husband has to help out more than he really should. Our finances are deplorable. We cannot pay our childrens' school tuition. Our phone constantly rings with bill collectors calls. I fear giving much more detail regarding our finances because I am embarrased and ashamed and I just don't know how to fix it. Except for my life insurance. There was a time when I was an organized, responsible person who actually did estate planning. Those plans were already crumbling prior to losing E and the cancer, but now the life insurance is all I have left. I know. Money doesn't solve everything. I know. My children would suffer immeasurably growing up without a mother. I know. Ending my life is not my choice to make. But is it asking too much to want to raise my living children who have already faced a lifetime of pain without having the suffocating tension of financial ruin?



Clearly, I have a lot of anger. A lot of desparation. I grasp at straws as I attempt to control just one thing in my life. People still don't understand that despite my gratefulness for a 'good' cancer, I'm so consumed and pissed off by it all. It's as if other people see E's death and the cancer as two events in my life that I simply need to 'get over.' We all know 'getting over' our babies' deaths will never happen. And the cancer . . . it's gone. But the thing is, not only do I not have a thyroid but the replacement hormone still isn't cutting it for me. It's been nearly eight months now. I take 300 mcg of Synthroid and my lowest TSH has been in the high teens, with all-time high of 78.6. (I'm sorry. I just don't have the energy to explain all this right now, but I'm sure google would be more than willing to help explain). Zero to little energy. Brittle hair, requiring me to chop off at least seven inches last week. Cracking skin. Ten extra pounds, at least. But the part that really pisses me off is that when a person's TSH is as high as mine, it's simply unsafe to even attempt pregnancy. Acheiving pregnancy with TSH this high is likely impossible, but if I were to become pregnant it's highly likely I wouldn't remain pregnant. So the choice to even try, to even desire another baby is out of my hands. That is what people don't get: Not only did my baby die, but I don't even get the chance to TRY for another baby. Not now.