I am just a Cuisinart of emotions and thoughts and I need to accept that. And I need to accept that my brain is operating at, oh, 50% power. On a good day.
Like yesterday afternoon, when I had to call up my parents, who were supposed to come over for dinner, and explain that I had double-booked my evening. Or today, when I did the mental math of figuring out what time I needed to leave my house to get to the clinic and somehow made 1:00 pm appointment and 1 hour 15 minute drive = 12:15.
Up down turn around ... my double booking was to go see Sex and the City with my girls, my posse, my tribe. Whoo-hoo!
But was there a weird vibe? Were people mad at me or tired of me, or am I just wack? ("Wackity wackity wack," said the BFF-DRE.)
Got in late, up early to get the kids off for their last day of school. Last day of school! Whoo-hoo!
Had to say goodbye to AdventureGirl, who has given us a deck, labor, babysitting, and a month and half of her life. And so much more.
The Boy is going to tell a particular girl today, "I like you. May I have your phone number so I can call you this summer?" We practiced this about 675 times. He admitted to being petrified. I reminded him that he was smart and capable -- "Remember, you helped build the deck last weekend. You even used the drill!" And he proved that he can Speak Truth:
"Mom, power tools are much easier than girls."
I think that all the grown men I know would corroborate that statement.
Get to the clinic in time. Art project going on, yay. See a parent that I talked to about 6 months ago. Back then, even with a language barrier, she seemed to take great relief in me telling her merrily that yes, LW had had cancer, but she was fine now.
She spotted me, and smiled. Asked how LW was. I shrugged a bit and admitted relapse. She looked so shocked. I asked about her toddler daughter. She said relapse, too. I asked what they were doing -- chemo, radiation?
She said, "Nothing." There is nothing left to do.
We cried together.
LW has lost another couple of ounces, normal. I have begun giving her half-and-half when she asks for milk to drink. I've given up any hopes of losing weight and instead am merely hoping not to gain.
Now, she's been accessed. Such a mild term for "punching a needle through your skin into your port." They give us a cream that is supposed to numb the skin, rendering it painless. I'm pretty sure it's just a placebo for parents. LW is 100% sure.
One gets tired of holding one's child still so someone can cause her pain.
After clinic, we'll pop over to the HOV lane to get home fast. My parents will be there, bringing dinner with them. They will watch, bemused, as the children and I wildly dance to Alice Cooper's School's Out, our tradition for the last day of school. Later, we'll probably go out for ice cream, also our tradition. Rather than an ice cream shop, we'll go to a stand with a walk-up window and eat in the car. Less of a chance of germs.