Dark Nights of My Soul

I don’t really feel like writing right now. I know I must, however, if I’m not going to fall more deeply into this depressive state I have found myself in. Oh look, ending my first sentence with a preposition. How noticeable. And exactly where is this depressive state some of you may be wondering? Is it Texas? Washington? California? Iowa? Florida? New York? Yes.

Right now the depressive state is wherever I am. Enter the violins.
I feel like Eyeore from Winnie the Pooh, and the dark rain cloud is hovering over my tail-less ass right now.

I know I’m not the only person on earth suffering right now --- I’m just being melodramatic because that’s what you people expect and that’s the tone of writing that keeps my fingers typing -- so deal with it.

I’m experiencing a “dark night of the soul” right now. We all go through them at times, even if we don’t realize it. My definition of that term is -- when things beyond our control start happening and it really shakes us up – makes us wrestle with the more substantial matters of this existence we have here on planet Earth – that’s what I call a ‘dark night of the soul’ anyway. Ironically, the main happenings that have recently occurred are actually secondary to me. These are not things that have directly happened to me – but to people that I love.




Yesterday morning I awoke to a telephone call from a friend that I hadn’t spoken to for some time. Naturally, when I first heard her sweet voice I thought: “Shit. I was supposed to call her back a long time ago. I suck. I need coffee for this.”

I immediately went into making my apologies, talking about how there are 37 old messages on my answering machine that I need to go back & listen to & delete…but because the number keeps getting bigger that it’s an easy thing to procrastinate….yada, yada.

My friend on the telephone – we’ll name her ‘Dora’ today – because I currently have no friends named Dora – and so the next time I write about her I’ll probably call her a different name because I won’t be able to remember such a name as ‘Dora’ and I’ll write a bunch of shit and you’ll be confused because you read my blog and I don’t. Besides, this writing technique will make you people think I have more than 3 friends. Brilliant, yes?

I can’t remember if Dora bothered to do any preliminary chit-chatting or not, as I was scrambling for the coffee. Yes, I realize that coffee is a big bad ‘no no’ for we Lymies – but screw it. I only have a dozen or so dietary vices – cut a gal some slack!

I can’t remember where I was when she said it – I think maybe I had climbed back into bed, awaiting the percolation to finish. She said, “Well I just wanted to make sure you knew about Sherrie….”

Prior to that second, I hadn’t known – but before she got the sentence out of her mouth – I knew.

Honestly, I think I knew it in my soul a few days prior, but I was just too stupid to put the clues together. Come to think about it, I think my soul had been dropping hints to call Sherrie for some time, but again, ‘stupid’ may not be a strong enough word – or even the right word. Maybe ‘self-absorbed’ would more accurately describe WHY I hadn’t called Sherrie for weeks.

No. I think it had more to do with pure bury- my-head-in-the-sand-ostrich-that-I-am FEAR.

I knew that Sherrie’s tumors had started to grow again; but when we last talked she sounded like the same pleasant, upbeat Sherrie that she’s always been.

Sherrie & I were supposed to ‘do lunch’ a couple of months ago. When the day arrived, I felt like shit, and called to beg off – to postpone to another day, with the agreement that we’d stay in touch better – that we wouldn’t wait so long before calling each other again. That we would ‘do lunch’ soon.

When I look back on it now, I wonder if I really felt all that bad at the time. What if I was just tired – or lazy? What if I was just allowing myself a physical excuse so that I wouldn’t have to face the fear of loss that quietly rested right in front of me.

I think I knew she was dying – and I didn’t want to accept it. I wasn’t in the mood for her to die – after all, it wasn’t convenient for me. If she were dying, it would mean that I needed to get up off my fat lazy ass & do something - - to go to her & sit with her & minister to her in whatever way that I could. But something kept me from it. And without beating myself up to a bloody damned pulp, I can’t honestly say what that was.



Sherrie & I had met about 6 years ago when we were both in therapy. We actually met at a woman’s retreat in the Fall of 1999, only a few short months after I had lost another dear friend, Jo-Ellen, to breast cancer that had metastasized to her brain.

At that retreat, Sherrie was in my little ‘group’ that the facilitator (our therapist) had put us in. It was a strange little group – as it was me, Sherrie, a couple of other nameless faceless totally forgettable women, …and my doctor! Initially that whole ‘doctor’ factor made me a little nervous – as I was still under the illusion that doctors fell just below God Almighty, Jesus, & all the major prophets, on the supreme hierarchy of BEINGS.

Anyway, Sherrie had such a magnetism about her, that she just drew me in, and made me feel so comfortable with myself that I was able to deal with the whole ‘doctor as pseudo-friend’ thing.

Sherrie was open, and refreshingly honest; had an infectious laugh; and she thought I was funny - and even intellectually ‘gifted’! So what was NOT to like about her?

We learned a lot about each other that weekend – and became instant friends. Because I was going through massage therapy school, I had brought my massage table to the retreat, knowing that I would make instant friends with some people just because of that.

I had decided to go into massage therapy almost immediately after my friend Jo-Ellen’s death because I found that massage was one of the only things I could do to ease a bit of her suffering. So I entered massage therapy thinking that it would be my ‘ministry’ to the world. I would help heal the world one stressed-out body at a time – because as we know, STRESS is the root of all evil. It really is – STRESS makes your immune system go on vacation somewhere – only it doesn’t take you – and you end up becoming sick with some disease, or find yourself as the instigator of daily road rage.


I was really interested in giving Sherrie a massage because she said she had multiple sclerosis. Me, not knowing what the hell I was doing, thought that giving her a massage would be good for her and educational for me. And it was, despite my ignorance.

Prior to the massage, I asked about her other health history – as that is what we were taught to do – although sometimes we didn’t know what the hell to do with most of the information other than to write it down on our little health info cards! And that’s when I found out that Sherrie had already battled breast cancer, and had seemingly won. She also told me that she had a substantial amount of lymph nodes removed as well, which scared me, but I did my best to conceal that fear.

I guess it was at that moment that there was a part of me that wondered why my therapist thought that putting me & Sherrie together in the same group was a good idea. No doubt my therapist was pushing me toward this woman because of her health issues. Did she think I needed to befriend one that had overcome cancer – to take away my fear?

On the heels of my friend Jo-Ellen’s death, feeling literally drawn to another & even befriending another who had battled cancer so recently… it felt a little ‘odd’ in that way that some things feel spiritually odd – as if it wasn’t really a coincidence.

My relationship with Sherrie grew as time went by; and as many friendships, our time together & our ‘closeness’ waxed and waned. Sherrie was blessed with a loving family, and hundreds and hundreds of friends. I think that was something I always envied about Sherrie – that she could establish and maintain so many close relationships.

That next summer I got a disturbing call from my therapist, ‘Mona’ (I’m giving her that name because the nature of her job is to listen to people moan & groan about all their damned problems & issues….and it sounds better than ‘Groana’). Mona called to tell me that Sherrie’s cancer had come back – that it had metastasized to her liver and stomach and that her oncologists had given her a ½ of one percent chance of living. It was like hearing that she had been given a death sentence.

Mona called me because she knew that I would have a hard time dealing with it and she wanted me to ‘handle’ my feelings before I heard it from Sherrie. She knew that I would break down. Mona knew that I would be consumed with it; that I would feel helpless and angry and confused. Mona was right.

I screamed at God and cried how it was unfair for Him to take another friend from me. Unlike Sherrie, I did NOT have hundreds of friends. I prayed and pleaded that He would leave her here with us longer. I prayed for a miracle.

Several times I went to Sherrie’s house with my massage table, attempting to do whatever I could to ease her suffering. I tried to keep a professional attitude while I was working on here, but to my recollection, every time I worked on her back and I gently glided over the areas where the cancer was, I prayed for that miracle – and I often couldn’t hold back my tears. I did my best to conceal my tears, because I didn’t want to ruin the experience for Sherrie. I wanted her to relax & to maintain her faith that she could overcome this ‘obstacle’. But each time I ‘ministered’ to her – I agonized over the realization that it might be my last time to touch her – to ease her pain – to express my love for her in that way. I always left her house with a warm smile on my face as I told her goodbye, and then I’d get in my car and weep all the way home.

During that summer, I observed Sherrie ‘getting her house in order’ while simultaneously holding on to her faith that she would overcome that damned disease. She pulled out 40+ years of photographs with the intent of organizing them – remembering the experience – being thankful for it – and perhaps having closure with those involved in all of those experiences.

I remember sitting at her dining room table surrounded by boxes and boxes of various photos. She shared with me a few of her fondest collections – revealing more and more about the fascinating life she had lived, and all the people she had loved.

One of my favorite things she told me – which I know had been a bit of a sore spot for her – was an incident surrounding her first marriage. Back when she was young, healthy & fresh out of college, she had married an idiot. She married a man that played some kind of guitar for the incomparable vocal artist: Cher. Yes, you read that correctly.

It seems Sherrie did not hold a high opinion of Cher, as she was one of the primary reasons that her marriage to the idiot broke up. It seems that Cher had an attraction toward idiot guitarists. I trust, dear readers, you can fill in the blanks from here. I wouldn’t want to say anything at this point that could endanger me of being sued by the incomparable vocal artist herself – although the attempt of getting blood out of this rock might be entertaining to me, and I’m sure I’d get more than my fair share of that 15 minutes of fame --- because damn it – I’d see to it.

Anyway – I just though that was a fascinating story, and it also just validates that whole six-degrees of separation theory….because you know that Cher at least knows someone who knows Kevin Bacon. (If you don’t get that – google: “six degrees of separation Kevin Bacon” and see what you find. I’m actually combining the ‘six degrees of separation theory’ and the ‘six degrees of Kevin Bacon’ game idea all in one because I want to.)

Back to Sherrie’s dining room….

I think that was the first time that we actually talked about her impending departure from this earth in a face to face conversation. Most of the time we talked on the phone and I held back my emotions because I required it. But sitting at her dining room table that day, looking at the photos that represented the experiences of her life up to that moment – it just tore me up inside.

She told me she wasn’t ready to die – that she wanted to live – that she didn’t want to leave her family (the second & much, much better husband – and her two sons), but that she was at peace about it if it was her time to go. Her attitude was that she was going to be with her Lord, and that was what gave her the most peace. But she had also determined that whatever time she had left, she would live it to its best.

I continued to pray for that miracle, and apparently those hundreds of friends were praying for that miracle too - because she got it.

I can’t vividly remember the first time she called to say the tumor had shrunk; but I clearly remember when she called and said that they COULD NOT FIND the tumors! I wanted to dance with joy, but I couldn’t at the moment because I was inside the rabbit’s pen cleaning out the best organic garden fertilizer (& earthworm food) and if I stood up to dance I would have hit my head on the low ceiling, possibly knocking myself out in a pile of animal shit.

Before I knew it, Sherrie was planning trips to Australia, Sweeden, Germany – all of which they stayed with friends or family – because when I said she had hundreds of friends – I meant it.

Unlike most of us, Sherrie really LIVED. Even though she was a woman that could no longer actually walk because of the ravages of the multiple sclerosis (which I later thought might be Lyme) – she drove herself all over the place in her modified van….and when she was in Switzerland, she skied! Sherrie was such a courageous woman.

At one point, Sherrie & I really got into scrapbooking. Every third Friday we’d meet at her church and the Creative Memories gal would lug up all of her goodies and we’d spend the entire day scrapbooking and sharing stories and giggling and snacking on food that was not part of our diets. I loved scrapbooking Friday. I’m gonna miss scrapbooking Friday. But more than anything, I’m gonna miss her.

As I said earlier, our times we shared together sort of waxed & waned because she was constantly having company visit from out of town – mostly friends – sometimes family. And then I started getting sick with all my various damned ailments, and it just made it harder to get together.

We’d sometimes go for months without talking – but when we would, it wouldn’t take us long at all to catch up and it was like we hadn’t missed a thing.

So it was earlier this year that we caught up again, when I called to tell her that I was now about to get a wheelchair – making some kind of stupid joke about us going places together in our wheelchairs – that we’d need to bring more people along because I was too damned weak to push mine.

As I recall, it was early in my diagnosis of Lyme (the diagnosis that only took 30 years to get) and I was feeling rather sorry for myself. I think I called Sherrie because I knew she could cheer my dreary ass up; and she definitely tried – but she told me about how the tumors were back and the drugs weren’t working anymore.

She talked about what the next steps were – another round of chemo – and then they’d have to see what happened after that.

I told her how sorry I was – and how sorry I felt that I couldn’t grab my massage table and scurry on over to her house and give her a massage. (And as I recall, I even owed her a massage because she paid for me to have this foot detox bath done a couple of months immediately before I got ‘sicker’ …)

She assured me it was ‘OK’ and told me in such a serious tone: “Donna, you’re going to be OK.” She said it with such a sense of reassurance in her voice, as if she had an inside tip on the matter. What I didn’t hear was that same sense of reassurance about her own health.

As I mentioned earlier – we scheduled that lunch date for the following week – trying to work around her doctor appointments, my doctor appointments, and her chemotherapy. She said she probably wouldn’t be able to do lunch during the period of time of the chemo treatments – so when I called to reschedule – we talked about how it would have to be several weeks later.

That was the last time I spoke with her. That was the last time I heard the sound of her voice – her laughter – even her smile. I could always tell by the sound of her voice when she was smiling.

Apparently she started to go downhill rather quickly. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to call her – to see how she was doing. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to face my fear about her health. I will have to do some serious work to forgive myself about that. I know that I shouldn’t blame myself – after all, how could I have known that she would go downhill so quickly. After all – this was Sherrie – she would bounce back. She would be OK. She beat those unbeatable odds before, she would certainly do it again.

But if I’m really honest with myself – I think a deep part of me knew. I think my soul knew that it was getting near the end of her stay here – and I just couldn’t cope with it – not this time.

When I was talking to my friend --- what did I call her – oh yes, ‘Dora’, I found out that Sherrie had passed away almost a week prior and that I had missed the funeral.

I’m so pissed that I missed the chance to be there with her – to get the chance to say goodbye – to get the chance for closure at her memorial service. But I’m not pissed at anyone other than me for not doing a better job at staying in touch.

I found out from her neighbor (a woman that goes to my church) that Sherrie had been in the hospital during her last week – and her two sons had gone on a mission trip to Mexico. At first they didn’t think they could get her sons back home before her death – but Sherrie refused pain medication until they got home. She got to spend 36 more hours with them before her death. I think it speaks of her incredible strength that she held out for them – as if she refused to ‘let go’ until she had a chance to tell them goodbye. For some reason, knowing that makes me weep. I guess part of me is weeping with a strange sense of joy that she found such strength & determination amidst all of her pain – to somehow say: “Hell NO I won’t go – not without saying goodbye to my children.” Not only did Sherrie know how to live well – she knew how to die, too. God, I really love that woman!

Her neighbor also informed me that there had been about 30 people holding a vigil up at the hospital prior to her death. She called them in one by one – saying she really didn’t have the strength to speak – but that she just wanted one final hug and kiss. Part of me regrets that I wasn’t there – and part of me thinks maybe I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

I heard the church sanctuary was filled to over-flowing. I do regret that I wasn’t in that multitude of those that love her too. It’s so hard to say good-bye when you don’t have a chance to actually say it. I suppose that’s why I had to write about this today – writing is one of the ways I process my emotions.


At the conclusion of my phone call with ‘Dora’ – my friend that had called to tell me about Sherrie -
‘Dora’ informed me that she too had missed the funeral, as she had just had a surgical procedure done herself. It seems Dora had a lump in her breast that needed to be removed. It was cancer.

We’re waiting to hear whether she’ll start chemo or radiation next.

Dear readers, I know I usually cast aspersions your way because it is fun and I am playing with you. But I know you handful of people like me, otherwise, you wouldn’t keep coming back. So I ask that you please say a prayer for Sherrie’s family – to help them as they endure the grieving process; and I ask that you pray for ‘Dora’s healing (God knows her real name); and you pray that I have the strength and intelligence and commitment to be a better friend to Dora, than I was to Sherrie.


I know this is really long, but I have some other shit that has been weighing on my heart – so if you’re depressed right now – you might want to stop reading.



Back during the July 4th holiday – my little nuclear family & I went to visit my in-laws in Arkansas. It was a good visit and I enjoyed being at someone else’s home where I don’t have any major projects that called for my attention, and I also enjoyed the fact that in Arkansas you don’t have to wear shoes, and my toenails looked great for a change!

The drive home was difficult on me, but it usually always is, so I try to sedate myself and just literally ride it out…asleep, if possible.

When I returned home, I was informed that a member of my extended family was ‘assaulted’ – assaulted in a way that will forever change her life – in a way that really REQUIRES serious, long-term counseling if she is to regain a sense of normalcy and to mature into a healthy woman capable of healthy relationships.

This family member is not even 12 years old yet. She was in the home of one of her so-called ‘trusted’ family friends. I’ve not heard all the details from her, as I have not asked – but somehow she got out of the house and went across the street to be protected by strangers until her mother arrived.

Hearing this news devastated me. I was in shock; angry; and sickened.

I talked to her a few hours later, and I realized while talking to her that she had ‘numbed out’ to the experience. When I first heard her voice on the phone (she called me), I started to cry. And she said to me, “Don’t cry. It’s OK.”

For some reason, her attempt at consoling ME really pushed a button and I very sternly told her that it was definitely NOT OK for ANYONE to do what they did to her! I, of course, was not angry at her at all – I just couldn’t stand for her to stuff down all the pain she was feeling – because I know that stuffed down pain only takes up residence in the body’s cells --- and I can’t stand around and allow her to do that!

I have stressed numerous times about the necessity of this dear child to get into some serious counseling, and hope that her mother is diligently working on that. Meanwhile, this precious child has spent some time over at my house - mostly because I’m a good listener….and I have a pool. But I know she really really likes me, and I guess I can give her a more cuddly kind of love than her mother gives her.

Don’t get me wrong – she has a good mom – but not all moms are the gushy kind of moms like me – and that’s OK. But sometimes we need more than what our moms can give us – and I think that’s why God places other people in our lives – because we all have love to give, and different ways of sharing it.

While she was here, I got down my old punching bag that I used while I was in therapy – working through my anger. I knew that she had to be angry about the ‘assault’ although she wasn’t really showing it to me.

I told her she could use any word she wanted – and that I wanted her to punch all of her anger out & into that punching bag.

At first she took a couple of swipes at it, called the perpetrator a name, and then nervously giggled.
I let her get away with that a few times, but then could no longer stand for it.

I don’t know where it came from – other than those many YEARS of individual and group therapy – but I started yelling – “You don’t have the right to touch me!” And then I made her yell it too.

“You’re a filthy son-of-a-bitch and you have no right to touch me! I hate you! You’re a sick bastard! You had no right!” And then she yelled it too. And her punches got harder and harder and the nervous giggling vanished completely.

I could see on her face that it was working – that she was finding her anger – and that’s all I was going for.

I just know that if you don’t even acknowledge your anger – there’s virtually no way you can work through it. I know that it is of vital importance that you let it OUT and you call it what it is and you don’t shrink from it or it will eat you up inside until it becomes like a cancer….until it does become cancer, literally.

I was hesitant to post this story about this sweet, precious little girl because I know she is at the stage where she is feeling shame – shame that is not hears to feel or wear. But I’m trusting that she is not allowed or even privy to my blog at this point in her young life.

But the reason I share it with you is because the kind of assault of which I write – is rampant in our country – in this crazy-ass world – and if people don’t start talking about it and start yelling “NO!” - that it will only continue.

I know there are people reading this blog that have experienced such an assault – not only because they’ve told me some of their story –but because it is STATISTICALLY impossible for there not to be.

What is important for all to know is that molestation runs in families. I come from a long line of females that have been molested. As for my straight line – it stops with me. I know I’m probably hyper-vigilant when it comes to my daughter, but I have my eyes open…and I REFUSE to let it happen to her.

When she was little – she did not spend the night at very many people’s houses. Now that she is older – even though it makes her uncomfortable to hear about it – she IS hearing about it. When families DON’T talk about it – as if it were some dirty little secret – then it only allows it to be perpetuated, because our little girls find themselves in situations where it can easily occur. Our little girls have their eyes closed and are far too trusting and too scared to fight and scream “NO!” They haven’t been prepared – told what to do in these circumstances.

So I share some of this story with you today as an attempt to communicate with all the moms and dads out there with your precious daughters – please don’t close your eyes. Even your most trusted ‘friends’ or even family members can be sick, sick, sick filthy bastards. Don’t be afraid to talk about it. You NEED to talk about it – no matter how hard it is to speak it --- it’s so much harder to deal with after the fact.



I know it’s been a long damned time since I updated the blog last, and I know that today’s subject matter hasn’t really been all that funny like you probably came here expecting. Well my dear readers, kindly get over it.

Next time, if you’re nice, I’ll tell you how I managed to sleep with melted chocolate on my ass the other night, forever marring my pretty semi-expensive sheets. Yeah…you’ll be coming back for that one….

Blessings,
DR Wiseass
-not a real doc – just a real wise ass