Tears are like Snowflakes

I remember reading somewhere that indigenous Alaskans have hundreds of words for snow. That made perfect sense to me. If you live daily and intimately with anything, I would imagine that you develop a relationship and over time you continue to discover and explore the innumerable facets. Of course each facet would have a name, description, personality. The relationship becomes intimate, familiar and yet ever changing and remarkable. Like snow to indigenous Alaskans.

We survived the weeks of chemo and radiation. We maneuvered the mine field of doubt and fear. We dragged Us through the Swamp of Despair. I assure you there was nothing heroic or noble about it. It was just focusing on the task at hand, interspersed with Reiki treatments, leaning into each other and every blessed moment, and long periods of trying to remember to breathe.

Suddenly one day I had a flash of awareness... that tears are like snowflakes.

I was driving to work, my vehicle having become my crying cave. My morning shower was always my best cry, what with all that hot water and the symbolism and the plain wonderful comfort of it. But that's only fifteen minutes a day max. My days were such that I was at work surrounded by people, or I was with Rich, or I was in the shower, or I was in my car for the 40 minute commute. So my vehicle became my crying cave.

I knew at what land mark on my journey I had to stop crying so that my face would have time to fall back into place before I arrived at my destination. In the morning I had to stop crying by Barges Street which would give me fifteen minutes to recover a somewhat normal appearance. Beyond Barges Street and I would have to prepare my cover story. Five minutes past Barges St and I would have to claim my allergies were acting up. Ten minutes past Barges St and I would have to add a severe headache to my allergies. Much beyond that and I would have to rub my eyes as I was walking into the office and complain loudly about being in an elevator with someone who had bathed in cologne. Luckily no one knew that I always took the stairs.
Once at work I could focus on the tasks at hand. and with rare exception I did not succumb to tears.

Driving home was a bit trickier. Route 619 was my absolute, drop dead, tears must stop point. I couldn't pull any allergy crap with Rich—you can't bullshit a bullshitter, and you can't lie to the other half of yourself. Because I had an absolute stop point, I found that I became more flexible on the start point. Sometimes I would make the half mile walk to my crying cave before letting go. Some days I barely made it to the time clock and then cried all the way to my car, and continued until reaching the intersection of 619.

I was well into this pattern when I discovered that Tears are like Snowflakes. They are far more unique than I ever would have imagined. This is what you learn when they are ever present in your life like snow in Alaska.

Some tears are wetter than others, some are saltier. Some get stuck and hang in your throat creating a lump of pain and burn. Some tears are dense and roll in slow motion down your cheek. Some tears are solitary; some tears band together and flow as a solid stream that seems it will never stop. Some tears are silent and some require two pillows to muffle the gut wrenching wails. Some tears hover in the bridge of your nose, threatening a flood as they build the pressure behind your eyes; some tears burst free unexpectedly causing you to duck your head and pretend a sneeze or cough to hide your embarassement. Some tears flow peacefully and passively; some wrench every muscle of the body into spasms. They flow from the eyes, ooze out the nose and burn down the back of the throat. Some tears are desperate prayers, some are angry rages, some are endless fear. Some tears are the backdrop for your private Pity Party. Some tears are purging and healing; some are shear exhaustion. Mostly, they are private.

Thankfully, the exact acceptable amount of tears have flowed in the presence of others—any more and people would want me medicated, any less and they would fear I was living in denial, or had no heart at all. Those are the tears for others that assure them I am appropriately processing the devastation of my universe. The remaining 99% of my tears are MINE. I guard them protectively like a treasured snow globe on the mantle that only I am allowed to tumble and hold in my hands—each flake encased, meaningful and treasured .

Many people comment on how well I'm holding up, which is hard for me to comprehend since Tears are my second job. Some women live a secret life as a stripper or call girl. My secret life is crying. My Indian name would be “Hides Her Tears”. I would share this with my best friend, but he's the one I need to protect. If he knew how I cried it would break his heart, or worse, he might think I don't believe we will beat this. And I do believe, even when the tears are falling like snowflakes. No two alike.