Pity. We have all at one time or another thrown ourselves a pity party. You know, hiding in a closet screaming into a half empty ice cream carton, “why me?” About six months after my husband’s hypopanpituitarism diagnosis (summer 2015), my husband was in the midst of a major pity party for one. He was a joy to live with. The treatments were not working fast enough or actually working at all or causing horrible side effects, we were always battling insurance companies, and we were both utterly frustrated. There was a lot of “Why me??” going on. He was feeling pretty alone in all of this – kind of how depression (pity) works.
I decided to host a surprise pity party for him. He needed to feel some love. My mom and I got crafty. It turns out a pituitary looks like testicles. I kid you not.
His mother was late to the party which made my blood boil. She was not into the idea of the pity party, thinking Shane wouldn’t like it. Boy, was she fucking wrong. Shane loved it. Perhaps this is not how she wanted her pity party to look like for she was also dealing with the fact that her son was diagnosed with a disorder that none of us knew that much about. It was good for everyone to have this elephant in the room dragged out for the world to see. This is life, and we can’t pretend that it always goes as planned. In fact, I’ve noticed it really never goes to plan.
The party was a hit – literally as we all smashed the pituitary pinata. Shane even had a friend drive 7 hours to come to the party. Sometimes, a pity party is best with friends. And cake.