There is no new bad news. We're just really sad.

There is no change in my health. We're just really sad.

Everything is "fine." We're just really sad.

Today was my 4th infusion, and when we got home I cried. Stephen cried. We haven't cried much in the past few weeks, but we're just really sad today.

The sun is shining. My kids are being taken care of at a friend's house. Another friend is making us pasta for supper. My neighbor came by yesterday to tell me about her recent trip and to check up on me. My other dear neighbor texted to plan a time to get together. Last night my friend dropped off a berry crisp I had requested she make me. My other baker friend made me three desserts to enjoy. The elementary school counselor texted to ask how he can support my children. My coworkers literally cheered for me when I made it into the office yesterday. Dear friends GAVE us their car. Did you read that? GAVE it to us. Four friends are scheduled to come clean my house this week. My dog makes sure to greet me every time I walk in the door. My husband is literally laying down his life for my health and flourishing. 

We're just really sad. Please let us be sad. Cancer is sad.

Dear ones, when I hear you say to be positive, or to count my blessings, or to have hope, I hear you cheering for me. I know you're on my side. But those happy thoughts have a time and a place, and today is not that time. But please let me be sad. Please don't say those things today. 

Cancer stinks. This is a loss, and we're grieving. We're experiencing many little losses and some big losses that all add up to a huge burden on our hearts, and we need a good cry. 

Dear-ones-that-I-love, please hear me gently say that I don't want you to stand at the top of this dark, cancer hole and call down to me to be happy and to think of the good things. Instead, please climb down into this isolating, horrid spot, and grieve with me. Be with me with your living, breathing, loving body. Give me the gift of presence--even if it's only online presence. Be still and small and quiet. Listen kindly. Listen to me grieve and cry with me. Remind me that I'm not alone.

Sick, grieving people need to be touched. Hold my hand. We don't like to always have to ask for a hug or a hand, but we need it. This space is so unfamiliar, uncomfortable, disorienting, surreal, and painful that we feel cut off from normalcy. Please touch us so we FEEL that we are not isolated from the world. I'm taking all the hugs these days. 

We're just really sad.