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The Clouds Hanging Over My Friday
Oct. 16th, 2017 11:53 amB went for a routine followup with the oncologist. She spoke of her daily hip pain and they immediately went for an xray to rule out any cancer in her bones.
I hadn't gone to the exam with her--'twas supposed to be routine, after all--and by the time I'd heard, I was out of my street clothes and in the gym.
This is going to sound callous and horrid in the digested form of this journal. For that I apologize. But Damn Dammit DAMN I can't TAKE any more of the 'Is She Gonna Die' protocol. CAN'T. It's always the same for me. Starts with the math: Which car do we sell? Which one do we pay off? How much of that offsets the 20% loss of income from her disability? Which furniture will move to Two so we can potentially rent out Three and Four for additional income? (Mostly Three's, since she's picked it out) Am I actually going to open the file where she's written down where she'd like to be buried? Would I keep the house or sell it? Who'd comfort me in my time of grief? (Then I feel horribly dirty-guilty; it requires acknowledgment of the locals who'd sign up for THAT) How much earlier might I retire, with no one to answer to? Where would I live? (Current answer: Black Flight Favorite Jacksonville! Low median single-family home costs, six hours from Hotlanta, two hours from Orlando, Overnight train rides to NYC)
And THEN I loop back to shaking my fists at the Fates, cuz losing B is So Fucking Not Fair. Give us FIVE years at least is my constant reply if you can't spare us ten. One lousy trip to Europe? Is that it? Give her a chance to tag a few more continents. HONESTLY. Then I cower into my familiar She's gonna make it anyway, so Fuck You All rambling rant to myself...
Then I came home and went 'Oh you gettin them (bleep)in results Right Fuggin NOW' because there's only so much of My Own Crazy I can stand.
SURE it was negative. THAT'S NOT THE POINT.
I hadn't gone to the exam with her--'twas supposed to be routine, after all--and by the time I'd heard, I was out of my street clothes and in the gym.
This is going to sound callous and horrid in the digested form of this journal. For that I apologize. But Damn Dammit DAMN I can't TAKE any more of the 'Is She Gonna Die' protocol. CAN'T. It's always the same for me. Starts with the math: Which car do we sell? Which one do we pay off? How much of that offsets the 20% loss of income from her disability? Which furniture will move to Two so we can potentially rent out Three and Four for additional income? (Mostly Three's, since she's picked it out) Am I actually going to open the file where she's written down where she'd like to be buried? Would I keep the house or sell it? Who'd comfort me in my time of grief? (Then I feel horribly dirty-guilty; it requires acknowledgment of the locals who'd sign up for THAT) How much earlier might I retire, with no one to answer to? Where would I live? (Current answer: Black Flight Favorite Jacksonville! Low median single-family home costs, six hours from Hotlanta, two hours from Orlando, Overnight train rides to NYC)
And THEN I loop back to shaking my fists at the Fates, cuz losing B is So Fucking Not Fair. Give us FIVE years at least is my constant reply if you can't spare us ten. One lousy trip to Europe? Is that it? Give her a chance to tag a few more continents. HONESTLY. Then I cower into my familiar She's gonna make it anyway, so Fuck You All rambling rant to myself...
Then I came home and went 'Oh you gettin them (bleep)in results Right Fuggin NOW' because there's only so much of My Own Crazy I can stand.
SURE it was negative. THAT'S NOT THE POINT.
