This is about nighttime being the worst time and the best time. And about how wailing helps.

The other night I dreamt of the moon. That she found me in the dark. It was cloudy and I was feeling lost and confused and I looked up and there she was. Full body breath, full body exhale. Home. Held. Protected. Safe.

Last week I dreamt I was hiding. From zombies. I was not brave, I was not fighting back. I was hiding in an old freezer box in a garage. Terrified but doing what I needed to survive-there is not shame in that. We don't have to be brave warriors or go out in a blaze of glory. We're allowed to hide out until the dust settles. I woke up and told Chris my dream of hiding and he said, "Well I dreamt I had cancer and the surgeons had to cut open the entire front of my body."

I shook my head with a grimace. Can't imagine why we're dreaming like this-things have been going so well ;) Nighttime has been both the hardest and most comforting time of day lately depending on how I'm feeling.

I either feel swaddled in the darkness and the quiet, laying there listening to Chris' rhythmic breathing. Holding my own body, cupping the back of my head and my brain where this tumor is. Praying over my body, thanking God for my life. It is peaceful and quiet. And I feel safe. In my bed. In my house that Chris and I have made a home-oh I love this house so much. I would live in it forever if that made sense to do. It is so distinctly us. Our home and our energy. People who come over mention that it is cozy with good vibes and my heart swells with pride. And the magical oak tree in the back is so wise and steady, even if it brings in wood roaches sometimes. As I'm typing this I'm watching a neighborhood cat slink up my walkway. I fucking love my home. Thanks for entertaining this I love my home interlude. The little things are the big things that make life come alive. My home is my sanctuary.

Back to the nighttime.

Some nights are quiet and safe and comforting.

And others. I feel like someone has stolen my breath from my lungs. I toss and turn and cannot sleep. I'm plagued with competing desires. I want to stop time from moving forward. I want to speed it up and have surgery tomorrow and recover. I want to delay surgery forever and for the tumor to spontaneously disappear so I don't have to walk through any of this. When I do fall asleep, I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night and within 2 seconds I remember everything that is happening. Everything that has happened the last four months and in that moment, it feels like there is no air in the room. I want to reach for something, clutch at something and say: What the actual FUCK has happened in my life the last four months. Instead, I usually mutter: fuck fuck fuck, take a breath and roll over to see if I can fall back asleep. If not, I get up and quietly pad down the hallway. Fill up my glass of water. Ponder if middle of the night cereal would be a bad idea (great in theory and the moment, not so great 30 min later-this is about to be an ad for my bidet). Turn the twinkle lights on in my living room. Sit on the couch. Wait for sleep.

The other week I could not stand laying down for one more second. I shot up in bed, covered my face with my hands. Was I about to have a panic attack? I wasn't sure. Chris put his hand on my low back, "breathe" he urged. Maybe you're tired of people telling you to breathe. I get that. But also: do you ever stop and take a breath? It's often the key to becoming present. To being able to respond instead of react. And apparently, in not losing your entire fucking mind when diagnosed with a brain tumor. Ask me how I know ;) Taking a breath (or two or ten) can sometimes give us a sense of what we need or what we're feeling in that moment. Out of the brain, into the body.

It is brave to be with what you are feeling, even if you can only stand it for two seconds.

I took a breath. It felt like a relief to breathe deeply. The sense I was about to have a panic attack was actually a feeling of constriction as I held back the emotional pain that needed to be let the fuck out of my body. Deep breath in and then: I wailed. I wailed loudly and as long as I needed to. Another breath, another wail.

I wailed for my body because she has been through so much. I'm sad she has to be opened up again. That she is in danger. That she will have to recover and that she will feel pain.

I wailed from the grief. The grief that has been so heavy and present for months. I wailed for my husbands grief.

I wailed from anger. That the ONLY thing I have wanted in these months is to love up and support Chris. With his grief and pain. I have put so much shit on the back burner (which I wanted to do) to tend to him and our lives during this time. To be present and show up for him. And I feel it being snatched away. This sharp refocus onto me. Tumor, surgery, recovery. What comes next? I don't fucking know. But I did not want this time to be about me. I feel guilty and angry and so so so incredibly tired.

I wailed from the pain of having to tell people I love what's going on. Of seeing faces crumple. Of hearing them cry. Of causing people I love pain.

When I had no more left, I laid down in bed and felt peaceful. That's what I needed to do. The feeling of " I'm about to have a panic attack" in that moment was arising from me trying to hold in the wail that needed space. The wailing that I only realized needed to come out because I took a moment to breathe. So yeah, I'm going to keep telling you and myself to breathe because it works. And air in your lungs means you're alive. It means a chance to keep going, to age, to be here. I will continue reaching for anything that reminds me to be here.

I threw up a silent prayer that the neighbors didn't call the cops from the wailing. Same prayer I throw up sometimes during sex. But this is Texas and my neighbors have signs in the window with pictures of guns that say, "We don't call the police." It's also an incredibly diverse neighborhood where gratuitous cop calling doesn't happen and it's more likely someone with a shotgun would knock on the door to make sure things were alright. And maybe that sounds scary to you and it would have to me before I lived here.

But last year when a 21 mile high speed chase ended in my driveway (what are the damn chances-Chris said it must be the good vibes of the house), one of my neighbors stopped me the next day and said: If you're ever in trouble, you can call the police and you can call me too. I'll get there faster. Leaning in, he lowered his voice and said, "And I've got a gun in the house." And it was comforting. His wife actually cleaned out our gutters a few weeks ago while we were back in NC for a funeral because we needed it and she wanted to do something tangible to help- so this family is just 10/10.

The wailing helped. I knew it would be painful for Chris to witness it. But I won't hide my pain from the people I love and try to choke it down. Only cry in private. All that would do is leave me feeling incredibly alone. Instead I cry openly in public. I say on the phone to whatever healthcare person I'm talking to (and there are so many every single day): I just can't believe it. A tumor. Brain surgery. I'm 31 years old! UGH! They look at my chart. They see the BRCA1 diagnosis and the prophylactic surgeries. Is this tumor related to that? No. Just awful luck. And they commiserate with me and tell me they would be scared too and they wish me the speediest recovery.

I will write to you all, tell you what I think and feel. Because I don't want to hide this. It feels like I'm already standing naked on a stage-might as well sing a song while up I'm there. Do a little dance. Be in on the cosmic joke instead of feeling like I'm at its mercy. With the understanding that I am at its mercy. That this is so wildly out of my control. That this is the ultimate lesson in surrendering for a recovering perfectionist (that's me) who loves to feel like she's got it, she's in control. If I do this, then that happens. Predicability. Not so possible here.

And weirdly, there is some sense of relief in all of this. That the only option is to surrender to the process. That in many moments I do actually trust the process because what else is there to do really? There is nothing to buck wildly against. There is nothing for me to fight. I just have to put one foot in front of the other. Take each day as it comes.

And breathe.

Love you,

Alyssa