Men like me don’t cry: we aren’t supposed to cry. But we do. I do. I have, and I will.
Four times in the last week I have been moved to tears.
When my blood tests came back to indicate that I might well have Addison’s Disease, then I cried. Not so much about the impending doom which Addison’s may bring, but more for the reduced life expectancy. (Forthcoming blood tests will confirm – or not – the Addison’s; either way, my cortisol levels are far too low, with my body attacking itself).
Telling my son that we couldn’t go on holiday as a family unit, I squeezed him so hard, with tears rolling down my face. He didn’t see them, I think. They are now away, having a wonderful time.
Then I received a letter – yes, a letter! – from a friend. Previously she had emailed, receiving my out of office reply. Undeterred, she then copied and pasted the email into a letter, posting it, of course. What a palaver! Her efforts moved me to tears. Unlike the email, I shall keep the letter forever.
The fourth occasion is almost too embarrassing even for me to admit to, but given that I have become overly “sharey”, I shall confess. Watching A Place In The Sun, an adorable new couple from Halifax – soon to retire – found their dream home in Spain. He had just survived lung cancer; she had worked all her life, raising a family, too. It made my day. They were chuffed to bits.
Happily, though most of my plans and hobbies are now on the likely back-burner of perpetuity, I have never been more excited. A new world has opened-up, a creative world. Two novels to finish writing; drawing to learn (not knitting, as someone has suggested!); nature to investigate; blog-writing to perfect; photos to take; lyrics to conjure; Yorkshire to explore. And as this metamorphosis develops, there will be tears to cry, because that’s what we creatives are supposed to do.