Sorry, everyone.

Radiation is making every joint in my body ache unbelievably. I still seem to be battling the aftereffects of my last Chemo round. Not up to writing much lately, it's taking all my strength just to get vertical!

More later, I think. I reckon I should be able to gauge were I am on the side-effects rollercoaster sometime next week.

Hope all of you are well and happy.

So I've spent a heap of the last umpteen years on Xanga bitching, cursing, and moaning about the Boy. There's still plenty to bitch and moan about, believe me.

He still:

• Leaves the toilet seat up even though he is 1/4 of the gender balance in the household. Nothing like a cold wet bum full of toilet water at 3am to make you want to call the poop-god down upside his head.
• Is unable to work out that if HE is hungry, then the bowl-eyed children clustered round the kitchen counter might also be hungry too. Nope, his sandwich and Mummy makes everything else.
• Puts the Lagostina saucepans in the dishwasher instead of washing them by hand. Ditto the Global knives. ACK. Obviously, we (I) bought those before we got married cos there ain't no way we can afford them now bub.
• Shouts too much at the kids and is overly fond of pronouncements such as "Things are going to change around here now", usually followed by "I am going to crack down hard on you girls.. blah bliddy blah-blah"
• Still can't cook anything but Baked Beans on Toast, bad scrambled eggs and fried eggs sandwiches. Must be a Pommie thing.
• Leaves his dirty work shirt and socks all over the house then craps all over the girls for doing the same. Pot? Kettle?

But what the hey. Reviewing that list, there's really not too much to divorce him for,  is there? My faults are numerous:

I still:

• Hate housework, find it demeaning and can find all sorts of reasons to shove things in closets and slam the doors shut. My oven has not been cleaned since my sister did it two years ago.
• Throw my dirty clothes around too. Although to be fair, I am usually the one who picks them up.
• Would rather read a book than talk to a human being.
• Have a phone phobia. The home phone is always on 'silent' and I only answer my mobile phone if the caller ID is someone I know.
• Yell at the kids.
• Can get lost in doing esoteric computer stuff like learning to design 3D models or draw hair in Adobe Illustrator.
• Feel sorry for my self too damn much and relive the past while listening to David  Gray which is almost grounds for committal.

 

But the Boy has stepped up.

• He comes home in an instant when he calls and I am crying because I can't cope today with school runs or dinner or myself.
• He writes me little notes before he leaves work at 6:30am in the morning telling me he loves me.
• He calls me throughout the day to see that I am managing.
• He comes to Chemo day even though the sight of someone he loves being injected with poison nearly makes him pass out.
• He does the laundry (well to be fair because I am laundry-blind and will go out and buy 12 new pairs of  knickers rather than do a load.)
• He is managing to reheat dinners and feed the kids before 9pm which, believe me, is a first in the ten years we've been together.
• He makes me cups of tea without being asked.
• He buys chocolate without being asked. (Major props here, folks!)
• He kisses my head every two hours when he takes my temperature.
• He has not YET complained that since I've begun treatment, I wake up every two hours each night, often waking him as well -- and I don't have an hour commute to and from work.

 

After all my years of bitching, I am thinking that I got a pretty good guy. All the faults are chaff, all the rest is golden.

Been offline  since the oldest child decided to reformat the hard drive. Bad bad bad. Full marks for curiosity, still , she must learn to click the 'cancel' button when she hasn't a clue what she is doing. I am writing this on my deck off a laptop, which I HATE because my big ol' fingers make lots of typing mistakes.

Second round of chemo does not appear to be as bad as the first. Mind you, the first was so goddammitty awful, death might have been preferable. So far, merely fatigue, crankiness, er.. bowel issues, tummy issues and general lack of appetite. And yeah, my hair is starting to thin. I look like an ugly KD Laing.

Thinking about death. Was thinking that I could become reconciled to it had I not had children to leave behind. When it's just you, well, then, you make your peace, sort  yourself out and face the facts. But leaving kids behind without a mother, just tears me up. So onward we go through the puking and the nausea and the sleeplessness and all the other nastiness because you don't quit when you have kids. You just don't. Or you shouldn't have had them in the first place.

The Boy would survive. He'd sort himself out, grieve etc, and find himself another woman because that is what men are programmed to do, and I have no quarrel with that. But the girls would be damaged, I think. Or become Prime Ministers.

(Note:  I love all my friends who've stepped into the fray this past week. You are gems. This isn't written about you. This is written about those people who suck off my drama and who I wouldn't have darken my doorstep in the 'good days'. Now it's all about them. Again.)

Okay, here's a list of things that bug me (and by extension ALL cancer patients, because I speak on behalf of them, doncha know):

Things Not To Do:

1. If we say we don't need another meal cooked for us -- we don't. The freezer is stocked, the dog has put on 8 kilos and you cook like shit anyway. We appreciate the gesture, know you want to help -- but fuck off with your crap lasagna.
2. Under no circumstances, are you 'coming over on Friday to clean my house'. WTF?  I am sorry if my personal hygiene offends you, or that you can see dust bunnies on my bathroom floor -- but tough tits. This family cleans its own house, maybe badly, but I am actually quite offended that you think this helps me. All this does is make me feel inadequate. So again with the fuck off.
3. When you ask if I am alright, and I say 'okay', then that's the end of the conversation. I don't necessarily want to spill my guts each and every time we talk --  about mortality, what it's like to have the Big C, and (use Big Sad Voice here) How. I. Am. Coping.  Unless you have a pipeline to the future, shut up and smile and accept my lie when I choose to tell it.
4. Don't call just to talk. Most of the time I am trying to sleep. And furthermore, long-winded weepy messages on the answering machine WAKE ME UP and make me wish you had cancer not me. So there.
5. On the above topic, don't get your knickers in a knot because (gasp) you called 3 days ago and I haven't returned your call. Maybe I am recovering from all the fucking telephone calls. Maybe I am puking. Maybe I am sleeping. Whatever. I still like you. Or will, unless you make an unreturned phone call an issue.

This What To Do:

1. Leave food (if you insist) outside my door and then text me or my hub to tell me it's there. Don't come in for a cup of tea. Really, don't. You didn't come in before I was sick, why would you want to now? My energy lasts 10 minutes, but my impulses last longer and must be overridden.
2. If you DO come in. Leave soon. Don't make me ask you. It's embarrassing and rude and feels ungrateful.
3. Tell me you will take my kids to and from school, or for a bit without me asking. It's really hard to feel like I can't look after them, and I worry. They also demand a lot of emotion from me lately, and I get worn out. Don't wait for me to ask -- just tell me when you'll return them.
4. Email me. I can answer email when I choose and in the middle of the night, it's a good friend.
5. Hug me. Cancer isn't contagious. I need the bodily contact to remind myself that.

 

 

So at this point, I have all the Oxycontin I need. Woot! Unfortunately, I have a headache that feels like a "too-moor" and a boob that feels like a Gatling Gun.

I started puking last night at about 7pm and continued on the hour until about 7ish this morning. I became inordinately attached to my Ice Cream Carton which seemed nicer to puke in than the toilet. All I did was yell "hep me hep me". Jeebus. I knew at the time I was yelling that it was completely bizarre - but it seemed to alleviate the pain. So that's me, turned into some sort of 1930's farm-boy crouched around his (plastic) farm dog Jess, who happens to be shaped like a bucket...

And my brain is going all over the place. When you are in this sort of space - mortality and higher thoughts go out the window.That was last week, when I had the luxury. This week is about waking up, not throwing up, not scaring the kids, not crying, not freaking out your partner. All I have managed to do in the past week, is s.u.r.v.i.v.e.

Wow.

So today I went to see the Oncologist. She doesn't look a thing like Wilson.

Which is just as well, because in addition to the absolute indignity of having cancer, you have to get weighed right out there in the waiting room. In front of complete strangers. WTF? Like life isn't bad enough when you have breast cancer, you have to worry being fat? Honestly.

Anyway, she laid out the plan -- I start next week. Yes, I will lose my hair. Yes, I will go through menopause. Yes, I will probably get mouth ulcers. Yes, I will probably puke. Yes, I will be tired.  Jeez.

Called a friend who's just lost her mother to liver cancer. Did. NOT. Make. Me. Feel. Better. Got knee deep into wallowing when another friend appeared at the door with dinner. Whereupon I burst into snotty tears.

Fuck. This is so hard.

Click here to claim your blog on Blogged.com

(I just clicked on something and now I have that thingie). Haven't a clue what it means, I have no intention of writing over there. But hey.

I am so tired today. I slept most of today and I could go right back to bed.

Made the kids cry when I told them they had to find their school uniforms so I could wash them for tomorrow. You'd think I'd ask them to gut slice a little kittie. Oi. Sent the Boy out for dinner, cos hey, I ain't cooking. I am so off food right now (YAY!). Except for of course, Cadbury's Fruit n' Nut. It will take more than self-pity and cancer to put me offa that, lemme tell ya.

Today's Bad Mother of the Day Award goes to... MOI, of course.

 

Today I taught Mouse how to kill people when playing The Sims.It gets too boring if you always play the Sims the way you are supposed to.

Good Ways to Kill Sims:

Put them in rooms but do not give them a fridge or a stove. They faint from hunger and... then they die.

Put them in a room without a toilet and watch them wee all over themselves and then get depressed... and die.

Give them a stove, no doors or windows and watch them set themselves on fire. They die.

Give them a stove, no toilet and no place to put the garbage, swarms of flies appear and... they die.

Give the Sim a nice big Turkey dinner, then build a pool, get them to go swimming, take away the pool steps and.... they drown.

Make them stand outside in a thunderstorm... they die when lightening strikes them.

Make a completely stoopid Sim attempt to fix a TV or a computer. They electrocute themselves... and they die.

Buy your Sim a Guinea pig for a pet. Don't feed or take care of the Guinea Pig. When the Sim tries to cuddle it, the Guinea Pig bites them and they get a horrible disease... and die.

Buy a  Model Rocket Launcher and set it off in the house. With luck, the house goes up in flames. Make sure you've removed the doors so you can watch them.... die.

I not sure it is so healthy to be teaching an 8 year old this, but she is laughing her socks off.

 

Just help me. Take this horrible thing away.

Did you know that studies show that children up to the age of 5 don't remember their mothers? What kind of stat is that?

So here I am. Back because the only place I can sort things out is here, written down.

This Tuesday I got the news that I have a particularly virulent nasty and aggressive son-of-a-bitch breast cancer. I have two totally awesome kids, finally got the whole bi-polar stuff sorted out, psycho-granny kicked the bucket (drank some champers over that one!) and now I get this 1 out of 100000 kind of breast cancer that is really fucking serious.

This has to be a joke. This is payment for accepting atheism into my life and rejecting God.

Or something.

Lists I made because I am feeling particularly morbid. Sue me, I have breast cancer.

Things I Wish I'd Done:

1. Smoked dope, got drunk and slept around in high school.
2. For that matter, slept with a WHOLE LOT MORE BLOKES.
3. On the same subject, had sex with Tyson Beckford. And Hugh Laurie. And Robert Downey Jr. And Jim Morrison. And George Clooney. (I do. not.want. to. know. nor. do. I.care.if.any.are.gay.)
4. Became a teacher.
5. Been nicer to my mother when I was just really being a narcissic self-absorbed teenager/young adult/30ish plonker.
6. Understood my dad better, earlier.
7. Paid more for shoes.
8. Dyed my  hair blond or Annie Lennox red and chopped IT.ALL.OFF.
9. Worked out what I wanted before now.
10. Been nicer to my kids when I wanted to throttle them and they never EVER deserved it.
11. Gone to Hollywood. Just to point and laugh. Really, one simply MUST.
12. Been a Size 6 for a week. I couldn't take the torture more than that. I  love to eat.
13. Relied on my instincts more and listened less to what people said.
14. Asked for help more often.
15. Bought a drum set and learned to play the drums.
16. Shot a gun. Once.
17. Jumped out of a plane.

..... more later. Promise.

My husband is in the garage crying his heart out, the kids are engrossed in "Matilda". We've told them as much as they can handle which is "mummy is sick but going to get better and we will all have to be positive blah. blah. fucking blah".

Of course we'd sweetened the deal by buying them complete new outfits -- camo hipster pants, black "I am totally gorgeous" glitter t-shirts with skulls and crossbones --- and handbags.  I am not stupid.

Mousey took it very badly. She's been aware something has been up for about a week now, not surprisingly. Boo-boo doesn't really get it. Medicine goes in, I get better. Mouse is more scared that I am lying to her and I am dying. Since I don't actually KNOW that I am NOT in fact, dying, I am avoiding the topic. I have told her about the radiation therapy and how I will be tired, and the chemo will make me sick and I might lose my hair. I talked her into helping me pick out the great big honking tattoo I am going to get on my head if I lose my hair. Something totally ludicrous, like a giant prehistoric dragonfly. She was so horrified, she wants to help. Visions of fairies or Bratz dolls or Zac Efron....

Anyway, that's me. What's up with you?

Introverted Intuitive Feeling Judging
Well, there you go.
So my question is.... and one that my lame-o cognitive psychologist couldn't answer is....
Am I the same person on or off the drugs?
I am on Depakote, Effexor and Aropax (er... Paxil for non-aussies). That's some serious shit.

• Depakote regulates my moods, so I don't decide to volunteer for everything at Mouse's school, take on extra work, and cook a dinner party for 45. Seriously.
• Aropax stops me from jumping in front of trains, when all of the aforementioned doesn't come off just.quite.right. And I am useless and incompetent and a horrible mother and wife. And anyone would be better than me.
  
• Effexor allows me to sleep when I've been up and down at 4am solving the problems of the world and my household and reading like a fiend cos I can't shut my brain down long enough to get the sleep my body so desperately needs.
• Not to mention the wine. The wine on Friday nights which allows me to self-medicate long enough to feel less tense.
  

I tell you, my doc had me on Valium for a month and that was the absolute best. Unfortunately, it is addictive and I can... see... why. I felt normal for the first time in ages. But anyway, I am uber-mummy and superwoman and who-the-hell-cares-what-gets-me-off woman -- I refused another prescription cos above all, I don't wan to turn into some blonde-streaked tennis lady, who is medicated up to her tits, who gathers round the pool for Gin and Tonic's every Thurs and Friday, smiling vacantly at her kids and giving her husband blow jobs on his birthday. She may be not suicidal but.. Ewwww.
(That was a really long sentence, can you tell it's Friday?)
Anyway, I am finding my way. It seems to be two steps forward and one step back. The whole Who Am I question is really bugging me though.
Maybe who I am is supposed to be un-medicated.
Maybe I am supposed to go off on wild emotional rides and soar through the sky just to crash and burn.
Maybe that is who I am.
That person. The person who would be a lousy mother and a crappy mother.
Not the person who calmly deals with everything and only does her rag after two weeks of constant squabbling by the Divas. Maybe I am supposed to have blown up on Day 4.
So that's the thing that's bugging me lately.
Who the hell am I?