Triggered

Caring About Crying Anthology

‘Caring about Crying. We All Cry. You’re Not Alone.’

This publication is part of a month-long collaboration that was the brainchild of Victoria Chin, the Carer Mentor.  Thank you, Victoria, and the other 12 great writers participating in this month-long challenge. Tomorrow, I pass the baton to Victoria (@carermentor) to carry on the anthology.

Day 7 of the Collaboration offers a personal essay about the complexity of grief. BIG THANK YOU to Anne (The Future Widow) for allowing me, Dr. Kristina Adams Waldorf (After He Said Cancer), to cross-post this essay on your Substack.

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I took two steps back as my chest began heaving. It was as if someone hit me physically in the chest, and I couldn’t breathe.

He wouldn’t be here for our daughters’ middle school or high school graduations, I thought.

He wouldn’t see them get married.

He wouldn’t grow old with me and be my rock and my comfort.

I would lose my best friend and the love of my life.

From the look of surprise on her face, she hadn’t expected my reaction to her words of condolence.

She had said something like, I heard your husband was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. I am so sorry that this was happening to my family.

I would have thanked her, but the phrase ‘stage 4’ pushed a button inside me. Stage 4 means a cancer has spread to other organs and is incurable. And that he would die from this. My tears came in a torrent.

To be clear, the doctors hadn’t diagnosed him with stage 4 cancer. They had called it ‘stage 3C’, which meant that it had spread to a ton of surrounding lymph nodes, including ones deep in his chest near the heart that couldn’t be removed. His doctor and care team were fighting the cancer, with everything in their arsenal and hoping for a cure, but there was no certainty.

Tiny cancer cells could already be living in his bone marrow, or hiding in other organs, waiting to grow and spread. The scans didn’t detect everything. She had said aloud what my mind had been thinking for a long time. His cancer could already have spread to other organs and be stage 4, but the scans aren’t picking it up. Her words opened a wound that I was trying my best to keep buried.

Why had she brought this up? I was doing fine and even making small talk with people. I was going to get through this event without crying, I promised myself in the car before walking in. My grief had been nicely bottled up. But now I was crying uncontrollably. Face red. Nose running.

“Do not ever speak about my husband,” I seethed and turned abruptly to walk away.

I hadn’t mean to trigger you, her expression said. But she also couldn’t take back those words that represented my worst possible fear. I didn’t want anyone’s well wishes or to be consoled. I wanted to live in this grief-free moment for as long as I could and NOT think about his cancer or whatever his cancer stage might be. I needed a break.

Oddly enough, we were at a celebration of life for a dear co-worker and so my tears weren’t really out of place. Soon, I was receiving condolences from others who interpreted my tears as grief for our friend.

I know you loved her, said one woman after seeing my wet face. You had worked so closely together, said another, patting me on the back. Of course, this was true. I loved the woman we were celebrating very dearly. She was full of light and goodness and died too soon. Perhaps my grief for her was compounding the grief I felt related to my husband’s diagnosis.

When I walked in the door to her celebration of life, I imagined paying my respects to her husband and daughters. Perhaps, we would be sitting down and listening to speeches giving tribute to her life. There might be a reading of a poem, or some sort of organized tribute.

Instead, it was a reception for a few hundred people. I had known many of the people at the celebration of life for more than two decades. Many of these people knew me well and wanted to learn more about my husband’s cancer diagnosis, which they had heard second hand. Some of them also knew him and were grieving themselves. They wanted information and to offer me support and love.

I simply couldn’t receive their well wishes and keep my emotions in check. The walls closing in around me was too black and thick. My soul was raw and fragile. I wanted to be left alone.

My tears were embarrassing. I didn’t want everyone at work to know the depths of my grief. I should be stronger than this. Stop being a baby and toughen up, I thought.

I made a beeline towards the least crowded area of the room, which held a table of her favorite things, recipe cards, and a poster board with her life’s milestones. I studied the photos and the ingredients on the recipe card. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t seem to stop crying.

“She had no idea what you are going through,” my husband would tell me later that evening. “She didn’t mean to make you upset. Forgive her.”

“I have forgiven her,” I said feeling defensive. “That’s not the point. I am upset with myself that I was crying uncontrollably in front of everyone I work with. I feel humiliated that I can’t control my reactions.”

“You can’t help how you feel, Kristina,” my husband said. “Let it go.”

I know, I know. I wanted nothing more than to let it all go. But feelings of anger at his cancer, fear for the future, and shame for my grief kept swirling around and around in my head. I couldn’t separate one emotion from another.

I didn’t want to leave the celebration of life without having spoken to the woman who triggered my tears and explaining what happened. She deserved an explanation. My voice was pretty hoarse, but if I wanted to help her understand what happened to me, I would need to talk to her.

She was sitting at a table with her back to me, eating lunch and talking with other co-workers. Touching her shoulder, I leaned in.

“Just wanted you to know that I can’t handle any questions about my husband’s health right now,” I said. “It is better for me if we don’t talk about it.”

She turned toward me, said a few hurried words (that I didn’t hear), and pivoted away. I don’t remember what she said, but she could hardly look at me. Why couldn’t she look at me? Was she offended? Ashamed?

What a mess.

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Care to Share?

An article, a Substack note, a poem, art, a great quote or music?

A personal experience with tears or crying.

Here’s how:

1. Create a piece about your tears or crying

2. REFERENCE The Carer Mentor Collaboration ‘Caring About Crying’ OR Simply draw a Heart with ‘I CARE’ inside it.

3. SHARE the URL Link in the comments below with the TITLE in CAPS

4. FIND and READ someone else’s piece, comment and restack.

A few catalyst thoughts: When did you last cry? Tell us about your most profound experiences of crying. Do tears come easily? When someone cries, what do you do—how do you receive tears?

Here are some great Substack resources that I recommend for anyone trying to understand the complexities of grief:

1. Debbie Weil, writer of Bold Age:  Please don't say "Sorry for your loss"

2. Victoria Chin, writer of Carer Mentor:  Grief is Messy: It’s Not a Tidy Five-Stage Path

3. Anne, writer of The Future Widow. ‘Intentionally Building Resilience One Day at a Time’

4. Victoria Chin, writer of Carer Mentor: Grief Resource Articles

The Caring About Crying Anthology. We All Cry. You’re Not Alone.

1. Sept 1 Launch article: Caring About Crying. We All Cry. You’re Not Alone By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

2. Sept 2 Crying: 'Did you know?' Resource: Tears the science and some art. By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

3. Sept 3 'Cry, Baby. Why Our Tears Matter' A Podcast Interview. Dan Harris and Dr Bianca Harris of Ten Percent Happier with Reverend Benjamin Perry. By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

4. Sept 4 ‘In Conversation with Rev. Benjamin Perry’. Victoria interviews the Author of 'Cry Baby: Why Our Tears Matter' By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

5. Sept 5 ‘My stoic mom's parting gift: Making peace with tears’ By Sarah Coomber at Sandwich Season

6. Sept 6 We Invite You to 'Care About Crying'. By Victoria on behalf of the team.

7. Sept 6 ‘ICU Special Edition: There's Crying in Baseball?’ By  Nurse Kristin  at HCT:Heal Cure Treat

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