That is how I feel about Wednesdays. Most people probably don't mind them, but I'm starting to wonder if after this is over every Wednesday will bring about a shudder for the rest of my life. Or at least a few years.
The average person's Wednesday indicates the middle of the work week has finally arrived. Mine marks a breakfast of chemicals followed by a three-day chemo-coma with a side of constipation, fatigue, heartburn, and just feeling plain old yucky. The mind-body association that is developing enables me to almost vomit on command when I think about it.
I prefer to try my best to NOT think about it that often. Is that mentally healthy? I have no idea. Does it make it easier to get through now? I think so. Will I regret that decision afterward? Possibly.
Thinking about the future, I wonder if I'll even remember the summer after I got married. I know I won't remember the summer part of it. There's been no poolside basking this year, no driving around with the music blaring and windows down, no late-night movie premiers, the annual Florida trip, sunburns, tan lines, fresh sweet corn, grilled food, sand volleyball, the county fair, the Iowa State Fair, game nights, picnics, Iowa family evening walks, or outdoor Panera nights. This year, the sun isn't something I feel, it's something I look at through the patio doors.
Moving to Michigan is partially to blame, but chemo takes responsibility for a lot of it. The combination is emotionally desolating.
I'm having a hard time mourning the loss of what was my home. I miss Ames. I miss my Iowa family, my friends, my church family, my job, regular interactions with people I love, a small community with character, the comfort I felt there...
I don't know that I've ever had to mourn before. I've lost things that I liked, but not anything I loved. How does this work?
I don't like to talk about it with Isaac because I have so many different thoughts. I feel every single one of them all at the same time, but none of them seem to align with each other. They don't even make sense half the time.
I'm sad because I feel alone and disconnected here, but I love being with him. I'm angry because I feel like he dragged me here--but I said "yes" to marrying him, knowing I would have to move. At the same time, I wouldn't change my decision to marry him because I love him and I know he had to drag me out here because of medical school. I hate his career choice, because at this point, it seems it will dictate our lives. Go to medical school here because you got accepted. Do residency here because it's the only place that it's offered. Live here because you have to pay off your student loans and we'll pay you best. It seems like it will be ten or fifteen years until we even have options.
I've always heard that doctors are more prone to suicide, depression, substance abuse, and divorce. Nobody ever suggested to read up on research on the rates for their wives.
I did, however, just stumble across a blog called Lives of Doctor Wives which has been insightful, encouraging, and discouraging at the same time. Encouraging, because I can read what other women are doing to cope. Discouraging, because it doesn't sound like it will end anytime soon. Or ever.
I guess at the end of the day all I can do is hope for the best and work on it. Whatever that means.
