The little town I grew up in used to be a train depot.
There were lots of crossings that just had a railroad sign, no arms, no lights.
Lots of people have died trying to beat a train.
I think that’s what it’s like when you get a big scary diagnosis.
You are just going along in life, hopefully listening to something good on the radio and WHAM!
An explosion of huge proportions that you have no hope of surviving.
Little pieces of you, your hopes, dreams, plans erupt into pieces and scatter
leaving very little recognizable.
Everyone says its the “new normal.”
It’s horrific and terrifying and you feel like you’ve been put in a tumble machine that just won’t stop.
Then the anger sets in.
The sounds a human can make in their pain is primal.
The prayers are spewed out. Your soul is shaken and your spirit sad.
The “why me, why us” go unanswered by everyone including God.
He is silent, nowhere to be found.
It’s dark and cold and in a room full of people you feel alone.
The level of despair is madness.
I can tell you I did lose faith.
I did want to die.
I did not want this illness or this life.
I wanted out.
Without hands even suicide was impossible.
I couldn’t hold a knife or pull the trigger on a gun.
I couldn’t open a pill bottle and the head in the oven thing doesn’t work from a wheelchair and besides that I didn’t want to take out the dogs.
So here I sat and here I had to change.
But first I’d call the doctor and get on antidepressants.