I've had an emotionally charged day today. This post is, in a way, a follow on to I can't stop crying. I still can't stop crying.
I had a telephone interview this morning with an adviser from Occupational Health. I had reservations about my dealings with them, at the beginning, but today she was great. Our conversation persuaded me that the crying had gone on long enough, has been embarrassing enough and is sufficiently unpredictable that Something Had to be Done. To this end she recommended I seek counselling. I have always prided myself on being a coper, a mopper up of the tears of others. I have got through bereavements, marital break-up, illness in others, homelessness, unemployment in self and others, four house moves in six years - me, I thought I was indestructible. How wrong. It appears I have dealt with none of it properly. The race pell mell through surgery and treatment left me no time to reflect properly. I either felt too ill, or unwilling to pause, to reflect, to work through all the Stuff.
And now, I've had to do one of the hardest things ever, for me, and admit I need help. I left a message with my Macmillan Nurse L. this morning after I spoke with Occupational health. She rang this afternoon, we talked things over. She was unsurprised at how I'm feeling. The upshot is that I have been referred to the Hospital Clinical Psychologist, employed by Oncology services. L. said some people have one appointment and find out that they are actually coping well. Great news. Others, she said need much more support. Oh, I said.
L. knows there is a lot of Stuff I have not dealt with, but in her deliciously calm and soothing north eastern accent, she reassured me that no, my world had not imploded but that I need more help than she can give me.
Astonishingly, to me, I feel a million times better now, still weeping for England. I don't have to manage on my own. Shame it had to be cancer that brought me to my senses.