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I can't stop the tears. They come when I try to talk to someone that calls to check on me. They come when I'm watching TV.
I try to reason this out. Is it because I'm an RN and do not believe what the doctors tell me about my prognosis? I watch as the victims of the horrific Boston Marathon face the loss of their legs and I'm ashamed and embarrassed about my tears.
A telephone call from my friend Denise in Wyoming, her voice laced with worry, she softly mentioned depression. It's not that I haven't thought about this too. I kept telling myself that this wasn't depression. I think I might be wrong.
She urged me to find a support group. I think I'll have to take her advice. My daughter and husband and friends and neighbors have been very supportive. I might need more.
I seem to have given up on living. That strong person everybody thought they knew has vanished. I don't want to fight. I want to curl up and sleep. Sounds like depression doesn't it? Lately, I have been avoiding conversations on the telephone. It's the tears that come and I don't want Wanda and Denise to hear them in my voice. What must they think? I don't know what to think about this and I think they soon they will be tired of hearing it too.
Tomorrow I will call Matilda and ask about the support group she mentioned to me on Tuesday when I was getting the infusion.
Just getting out of the house and going somewhere will be a plus.
I'm through here for now.