I have several friends with cancer.  I check their Caring Bridge sites only on the weekends, because I just cannot check them during the week.  It’s not that I don’t care.  It’s that I know I will need at least 30 minutes, or possibly an hour, to read their posts and cry for their struggles, heartache, and pain.   I am always so sad, yet so thankful for their good attitudes and positive spirits at the same time.  It’s a very hard combination, and for this tired girl tonight, it was just about too much.

It’s been a pretty rough week at work.  Just really busy, and people, as in any business, want what they want, when they want it, and they want it for free.  They don’t seem to care about when someone else might want something, too, so that is a big part of the problem, with most jobs, anyway.  I think that I’ve had a hard day, or that someone was mean at work and hurt my feelings or made my staff feel inadequate.  Then, I come home on Friday nights, read Caring Bridge, and realize that no, I do not have it bad at all.  I have (for now anyway) my health.  I have the love of a good man.  I have wonderful parents who love me.  I have siblings who are there no matter what.  I have kids who respect me.  I have it easy compared to my friends who have Caring Bridge sites.  They may have those things, but for how long, they do not know.  They also have pain, suffering, and horrible medications that make them sick.  My heart just absolutely cries out to them every time I read their posts.

So tonight, I’m unfortunately wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt I got from the law school some years ago.  It’s one of my favorite shirts, and it’s my usual attire for Friday nights and some Saturday mornings and afternoons, depending on what time I get up after studying all evening.  Well, tonight, the shirt sleeve is looking a little ragged.  I cried at my computer until I couldn’t cry anymore just about.  Reading those posts this evening, hearing the love each of my friends has for their friends, spouses, kids, and families, just makes me so very grateful for my own.  My poor shirt sleeve has the scars to prove it.

I couldn’t even bring myself to get up to get a tissue.  I don’t know why.  Sometimes, you just want to be a little kid and pretend that there is no pain, no suffering, and no heartache.  Sometimes, a sleeve cry helps.