So yes, it's 2:30am and I can't sleep. I can't sleep because I feel nauseous and wired and my mind is splitting and splintering in all different directions. I just want this all to be over. I want my life to go back to the banality of worrying about money, what to feed the kids and whether my arse looks fat in that pair of jeans.

I am on my last round of Chemo. For me, each round has taken a little more of the punch out of me. Makes sense. You start with a normal blood count, and each round, the starting point is lower and lower. I started this round with only 26% white blood cells --- which, apparently, is a good count. I count myself lucky that I have not had to have Chemo delayed due to low blood counts.

Still. 26% ain't much.

So I am dragging my tired seasick self around the house, trying to maintain some normality for the girls and The Boy, and it is getting mighty wearisome.

Hopefully, this time next week, I will be in the swing of full-time daily Radiation, plus a weekly Chemo session. And we will have this nasty fucker on the ropes.

I like the idea of Radiation. It's not as nebulous as Chemo. Chemo scours your body invisibly looking for those rogue cells but you can't really see it working. My insides are as clean from cancer as if they'd been scrubbed in a dishwasher. I could donate even  my long suffering liver if I got hit by a bus tomorrow. But I can't see it, I can't see it working -- apart from a slight reduction in the size of my tumour and some generally softening all round. (Didn't lose my hair , nyah-nyah!).

Radiation, (I imagine) is like bringing out the M-16. I want to see that thing shrink daily, I want to know it's being bombarded with nasty stuff. I like to imagine it skittering and gibbering with fear, trying to hide from the all powerful DEATH RAY.

Bring.

It.

On.

I am so over this.

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.