Moi Quand Je Pleure

      It started at about, "There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn't true." I strove on determinedly, pausing to take a deep breath at "probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn't know that the party was over." I dug my nails into my palms at "that huge incoherent failure of a house," hoping the minor pain would distract me so I could continue. I came completely undone, however, at "Gatsby believed in the green light." It was at this point that I had to hand the Kindle to Lucas so he could finish the book's final paragraphs while tears rolled down my face and my nose turned an unattractive, mottled red.
       The Great Gatsby is a sad book. Really. It's beautifully written, moving, and its depiction of the emptiness of the American Dream is heartbreaking. That, however, is not why I was crying. Frankly, I have no idea why I was crying. I always cry when I read aloud. I can barely make it through Winnie the Pooh without my voice cracking. The final pages of The Great Gatsby was my Waterloo, but Lucas helpfully informs me that there were at least ten other times during the book when he could tell I was fighting back tears. I also cried the other night when explaining to my kids the history behind the Liberty Mutual commercial that features Olympian Kerri Strugg and her heroic vault. I cry in church almost every Sunday; sometimes it is the words to a song, sometimes part of the sermon or a Bible passage. I used to cry at swim meets when kids I didn't even know swam really well. I have cried at funerals of people I hardly know. The one place I didn't cry was at my Grandma Emy's memorial service, and I am sure I have never been sadder in my life.
       I can partially explain this abnormality genetically. I have often seen my mom cry in church, and my dad cries when he is moved or nostalgic. I never remember them crying when they read aloud to me, though, so the disorder must intensify from generation to generation. I have known other criers, too. We had a pastor years ago who used to cry during almost every sermon. We thought it was maybe because he needed to practice his sermon more, so he could get through the emotional bits tear-free. I'm not sure anymore, though. I know the last paragraphs of Gatsby almost by heart, and it did me no good. In fact, it is very often books that I know well that set me off the quickest.
      After Lucas finished "borne back ceaselessly into the past" (typing the words even now makes the back of my eyes sting), I told him that I probably have some kind of wire loose that switches on my faucets at bizarre times. That gave me an idea. I googled, "Why do I cry when I'm not sad," and happened upon a post by another crier, who said that she (or he) sometimes couldn't get through a telephone conversation about home maintenance without the sobs starting. Dozens of others commented, sharing about crying in school when they don't understand the homework, or crying if they feel stressed or overwhelmed. I was glad to find the company, but reading doesn't make me frustrated, stressed, or overwhelmed, so though our symptoms were similar, it didn't seem like I shared exactly the same problem. When I tried "Why do I cry for no reason," most of the websites had to do with depression. Reading doesn't depress me, either. So then I typed, "Why do I cry when I read a book," and got many helpful suggestions for books that would make me cry. Not necessary, thank you. I can pick up Pippi Longstocking and a be a puddle.
       Then I happened on an article about a disorder called PLC, "pathological laughing and crying." It's defined as "relatively uncontrollable episodes of laughter, crying, or both" (Parvizi). Basically, it is when a person laughs or cries for no reason, or for a reason that would not normally make a person laugh or cry. It is due to some kind of brain lesion (the article was challenging the conventional wisdom about what kind, but that didn't really seem important to me, so I didn't bother to try to understand it). The whole thing sounded a little loony, but I read on. The man in the case study had had a stroke, and would uncontrollably laugh or cry for 30 seconds to 2 minutes following neutral stimuli. He was "acutely aware of this abnormal behavior and embarrassed by it." Apparently they gave him some medicine, which controlled the symptoms of PLC. Interesting. Maybe I have lesions in my brain. I don't think my crying is as unpredictable as the man's in this article, though, and I don't think I've suffered a stroke. So I rejected that hypothesis.
       Then I started thinking about Eric, who rarely cries, but whose hands often sweat. They are not just clammy, they are drenched. When he was young, his piano teacher finally told him to find something else to do because he was getting her keys all wet. He once talked to a doctor about the problem. The doctor told him that it was basically wiring, and he could rearrange some things so that Eric would no longer have sweaty hands. But he warned that the sweat was the body's way of dealing with stress, and if that way was blocked, the stress was going to find some other outlet. Eric decided to stick with the sweaty palms. So I wonder if my crying is like that -- just a little pressure release. Brooke Siler, who writes for the Huffington Pos,t (and is a celebrity pilates instructor, so she ought to know), says that crying is good for just that reason: "It's the steam valve on the tea kettle." Maybe. I know that when I have been very stressed (as during some recent transatlantic moves), the crying has become more frequent. But that still doesn't explain the book trigger. The fact that certain passages in books reduce me to a soggy mess is not totally random, but it doesn't make complete sense either. Any ideas?

Sources

Siler, Brooke. "Stress Relief: Why Crying Supports Emotional Wellness." Huffington Post. Posted 4/7/10. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/brooke-siler/stress-relief-why-crying_b_629309.html.

Parvizi, Josef. "Pathological Laughter and Crying: A Link to the Cerebellum." Brain: A Journal of Neurology. 5/9/2001. http://brain.oxfordjournals.org/content/124/9/1708.full

The Best Laid Plans

        This was going to be the week. After endless weather-related school delays and closings, holidays, cold so severe it caused me to miss my morning swim in order to drive kids to school, and unusual orthodontist appointments, this was finally going to be a normal week. I couldn’t wait. Monday went pretty well, with a normal day of running errands while Luc was at co-op interrupted only by an unexpected visit to Pellet Stove Mike. (Our stove had popped its chain the previous night, and we didn’t trust ourselves to fix it.) I packed my swim bag Monday night, eagerly looking forward to the next morning’s pool workout, followed by a productive day of cleaning and homeschooling, followed by a pleasant evening of running kids around and Bible Study. 

I woke up Tuesday with a splitting headache. I took Ibuprofin, drank a few sips of coffee, and the headache was joined by nausea. I debated trying the pool anyway, but was sent back to bed by my husband. Strike one. I finally rose at 8:30 (shocking Lucas, who I think has never before woken up earlier than me), in time to call Pellet Stove Mike, who spent the morning unable to repair our stove. He likes to chat, and occasionally needs help lifting something, so I couldn’t leave the family room. The bathrooms remained uncleaned. Strike Two. Now we sit waiting for the snowpocalypse. The entire State of Maryland declared a state of emergency before a flake even fell: Strike Three. Clearly, school, swimming, and ALL MY PLANS will be cancelled tomorrow. So much for my normal week.

The radio station I listen to has a daily question. A few weeks ago, it was, “If there was an Olympic Team for something you excel at, what would it be?” I didn’t call in, but I knew right away: I would be the captain of the Olympic Planning Team. I plan vacations. I am planning college visits. I plan my week like a puzzle, fitting in times to shuttle kids, make dinner, prepare lessons, exercise, call friends, and clean. Those who know me won’t be surprised by this peek at my day planner. 

   

The good thing about being a planning kind of girl is that, if things go well, I get a lot done. Once I wrote something on a day, it’s rare that I can’t cross it off. The bad thing is that if I’m struck with something unexpected that throws off my schedule, I accomplish nothing. I’m not great at thinking on the fly. (That’s why I’m a planner, duh!) It’s probably just a teeny bit self-centered to think that the entire purpose of this winter’s Polar Vortex is to teach me that, despite my ambitious calendar and devotion to foresight, my illusion of control is just that -- an illusion. Nevertheless, as a part of whatever else is going on with the weather, I do think that this winter holds an important lesson for me. One that I am not particularly enjoying learning.

Most people are familiar with the poem “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley. On first reading, this poem is inspiring: “My head is bloody, but unbowed” . . . “I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.” Gives you the chills, doesn’t it? I ran into this poem in college, and after the initial frisson, it actually scared me. It seemed so defiant, such a risky, fist-to-the-sky challenge to God. I thought, “that can’t be the right way to think.” Nearly a quarter-century later, the poem strikes me not so much as dangerously defiant as patently ridiculous. The Master of My Fate? Who am I kidding; I can’t even remember to switch the laundry from the washer to the drier if my schedule is thrown off. The Captain of My Soul? A little headache and nausea (which I did not have any part in causing) keeps me in bed hours longer than I want to be there. Henley was certainly made of tougher stuff than I, but I’m willing to bet that if he were honest, he’d admit to being hit with some flying snowballs that he couldn’t handle. And of course, no matter how in control a person is, the moment comes when life ends (what Henley calls “the horror of the shade”) -- and that’s not really in our hands. Nor is what follows.

Despite the fact that I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded of my finiteness and fallibility, I am actually thankful. If it’s true that I am not really in control, the best thing is to know it. After all, “the truth shall set you free.” And if the truth is that I’m not in control, it’s good news that Someone is. And the best news of all is that the Someone who is, is better, wiser, and more benevolent to me than I could ever be to myself.