“‘Because of the chemo, he’ll likely be sterile.’ I felt my heart break as they escorted us out a side door, so I didn’t have to pass the expecting mothers in the waiting room. I tried coming to grips with the fact I may have lost the baby, but there was 1% of me that told me there was a CHANCE.”
“My parents had shed too many tears over me, and I couldn’t bear it to break their hearts again. I felt ready to die, but knew it wasn’t my time. I was weak. I gave up the reigns and opted for inpatient treatment. I was frustrated, and I let this be known. I would shout and hit the walls. I would argue. But gradually, I came to life again. I am no longer held back by my demons.”
“He knows leaks happen and periods can be uncomfortable. He offers to bring me chocolate and Tylenol when I have tummy cramps. He’s completely unashamed. Completely understanding.”
“My life as I knew it came to a screeching halt at the sight of a little pink plus sign. When I became pregnant at 21, I felt like the world was ending. Society ruined this for us. We were so convinced we had to follow this schedule of ‘happenings.’ I was robbed of the blissful success in conceiving.”
“We were still young. His death was not supposed to happen. So, when I woke up to go work yesterday, 4 years after my husband died, I opened up my tired eyes, looked over to my nightstand, and there it was. That white cereal bowl with a slice of chocolate cake in it, left there by the one that came ‘next.’ He knew it had been a rough day. He knew I needed to have 5 whole, quiet minutes to just enjoy something that I love. Because he gets it. He really gets it.”
“What started as a hockey accident eventually led to full-blown addiction and death. John was injured while playing club hockey while stationed on a base in Alaska. He was sent home with an ice pack and a bottle of pain killers. They are highly addictive, especially to a young brain. I wonder when he knew he was in trouble.”
“I am not a saint. I never was. But I’m real. Bold statements from a woman who didn’t stay pure for her husband, who has watched pornography, who has lusted and succumbed to perverse desires.”
“My diagnosis came when I was a 48-year-old, post-menopausal woman with no biological children. I told myself, ‘I have to get my sh*t together quick!’ Things were progressing well until a few days after we moved into a new home. I was experiencing severe shortness of breath, which I’d mistakenly attributed to chemo side effects. Long story short, 840 gallons of propane leaked into our home. By the time the leak was discovered, my treatment plan had been modified.”
“‘I was waiting for the right time to tell you.’ It was 2 a.m. on a Sunday night, our little girl sleeping so peacefully on my chest. Memories of our honeymoon, our wedding anniversary just weeks before crowded in on me. How long had I been living a lie? I remember wishing I could tell him to get out. I was paralyzed. He turned his back, went to sleep as I lay awake, sobbing. Every night, I’d dream about hurting him. I had so much anger hidden away, I was afraid I’d explode.”
“Today left me feeling like I am not sure if I want to drink, do drugs, or run away to a tropical island and tan my whiteness. But none of those were an option, so instead I cried. I couldn’t hold back the tears quick enough for no one to see me. It isn’t fair.”
