I cry a lot lately. Silent tears. Ugly tears. Loud, heaving sobs that make my body ache. Tears of the fear of dying. Tears of the injustice that this disease is going to take me from the love of my life. Tears of discomfort. Tears of my deep hatred of chemotherapy. Tears of gratitude that there are still treatment options for me.

I cry because I resent that every moment of this diagnosis has been entangled with the evil of Donald Trump. I cry because it’s unlikely I’ll outlive his presidency. I cry because given half a chance I would hand this diagnosis right over to him. I cry because fuck him.

I cry because three days into my new chemo treatment, my anxiety levels were already as high as they were when I was at peak toxicity before. I cry because I had just let myself restart my wine club membership. I was so excited to drink so much wine again.

I cry because I feel alone. I cry because I feel so held. I cry because every now and then I get a glimpse of how many people are rooting for me, praying for me, holding me up. I cry because the other day I was walking down the street and a man I’ve never met told me he was following my journey and wished me the best.

I cried the whole ride to my support group yesterday, and through the whole breathing exercise, and after I cried through my whole check-in, those amazing people affirmed my experience, reminded me how terrible chemo is, how mood-altering pain is, how sometimes the only thing you can do is cry.

Then I promptly got back into the car with my baby and started crying again.