In 2nd grade I cried because my mom forgot to tell me she loved me before I went to school. I cried at the movies when it didn't look like Willy would ever be Free. I cried when I read A Taste of Blackberries in 4th grade. I cried when I made a 94 on a math test in 7th grade. I cried for catharsis on the wave of any slightly small event or image that struck me as sad because it felt good to release my emotions in a physical way.
I cried in nursing school in my professor's office when she corrected me on my work. Only she didn't try to soothe away my tears as Mrs. Harrison had in 4th grade; or as my dad always did; or as my husband always does.
She just stared at me.
Later she told me I was too old to cry for no reason and it was my pride and ego that made me cry when I was embarrassed about getting corrected.
She was right. I don't like to be wrong. So after that, I stopped crying.
Until the strangest occurrence- Josh and I were driving home from a friend's party and I saw a raccoon in the road that had been hit by a car, but it wasn't dead- it was stuck to pavement on one side, flicking it tail and waving one arm- as if to flag down someone for help. I burst into tears, sobbing profusely for this unfortunate creature.
I ran to my garden for solace- getting the dirt beneath my fingers is peaceful for me. And it helped for a while. But then today my dad told me he's moving to CA in a month for a new job. I know I'm a married woman with a life of my own, but besides my husband, my dad is the person with whom I spend the majority of my time. In fact, we were on our way to buy me a new bike when he broke the news. I had been obsessing over this new bike for weeks and all of a sudden I felt like there was no point. My dad was the person I mountain biked with.
I told Josh he'd have to start biking with me.
But the flloodgates have been opened and now I can't stop crying and I'm afraid something will hit me wrong at work and I won't be able to maintain the composure I've held for the last year.
But I have changed in spirit and strength in the last year. I am now able to tell when someone's problem is not with me, but with themselves and no longer get hung up on it.
I'm able to take a deep, cleansing breath.
I'm able to hold dying patients hands and stand with families and be the strong, knowledgeable person they need.
But now, I'm falling apart because my dad's moving. I know, you're like, "It's not like he dying, just moving."
And I know it's true, I should be thankful for our health and our time together and media that will keep us in touch, but it's just I'm a terrible pen pal. And my dad, like me, is a doer. My dad and I pick peaches and rollerblade and geocache ans swim in the lake and fly fish and he thinks every idea I have is great and I run to him whenever I need him to fix my car or move a dresser or pick cabbage worms out of my garden and oh I miss him like crazy already but Damn! it feels good to cry.
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