Hospice

My FIL was admitted to Hospice care after several months of increasing health issues. He was initially diagnosed with breast cancer in 2010 and even though after his treatments were concluded, he was told the tumors were shrinking. Unfortunately after one of his follow-up appointments they found tumors scattered throughout his body. When they attempted to treat one area, it would negatively affect another organ. Then when they would treat that next organ, another would fail. The cyclical pattern was telling: there was nothing more they could do as far as treatments.

This news has sent the in-law’s family into turmoil, driving a wedge between those who think the doctors gave up too easily and those who think he should be allowed a chance to pain-free and comfortable days. When I first heard that he was going to go through chemo, I was stunned. I didn’t agree with his decision, nor the encouragement of his decision, to go through treatments that would make him feel like crap with the slim chance it would actually add time to his life. If he was 70 instead of 20 years older, I would feel differently. In other words, I thought his quality of life was severely diminished.

And then the chemo DID make him horribly sick and now instead of spending quality time at home, he’s too weak and requires continued care in a nursing home. Not so say he wouldn’t have possibly spent time there if he hadn’t gone through chemo, but being laid out for weeks in a hospital bed prior to making the hospice determination is where I think his health was negatively compromised.

Sparring Partner and I are not seeing eye to eye on this, but I am trying hard to keep my mouth shut. This is not happening to MY dad; I don’t know what he’s really feeling. I just know he leaves almost every evening to see his dad and returns well after the kids and I are in bed. During the day, he is prone to moments of brooding and even tears. After all these years of hearing stories of childhood, I wonder where the sudden change of heart is coming from, but as my sister explained, for my husband’s family, their dad acted as the true patriarch of the family and was actively involved and had final say on anything they did. Not like my dad who was this person who would only say, “Ask your mom…” when there were decisions to be made (if not just an outright “no”).

It’s a strained atmosphere around here. Waiting for the other boot to drop.

 

The 2011 Family Vacation

A drive with two younger children will make you appreciate the smaller things in life. Like handheld gaming devices, smart phones, and DVD players with wireless headphones. I’ll admit that this past weekend’s trip to Denver and back is making me seriously rethink our Disney World trip in February. Sparring Partner and I have been to Colorado a handful of times and we find it both inspiring and rejuvenating. The scenery is never boring, even in the very eastern part of Colorado where the only thing to break up the horizon might be a small oil rig or a farm of wind generators. We thought that Doodicus might enjoy the adventure. We imagined him awestruck by seeing the mountains for the first time. We did not foresee what seemed to be his endless whining and complaining, including the statement, “This is lame!” Ah, the age of 9… We pressed on making the most of the trip. Our hotel in downtown Denver was perfect in both accommodations and view.

We were a five minute walk from the 16th Street Mall where the four of us enjoyed a handsome cab ride at dusk.

Sparring Partner and Doodicus attended what was our son’s first professional baseball game at Coors Stadium. While they were at the park, I met up with an amazing blogger from the area, Lori Lavender Luz. Many topics were brought up while none were finished thanks to one pee break, one poop break (false alarm) and a teary breakdown after taking a thunk to the forehead. I’m referring to Aitch on all three interruptions, by the way. I was further honored when she said that after mentioning to Melissa Ford she was meeting with me that Mel told her to tell me “Hi!” I forgot (or maybe that was the first potty break request) to return the greeting, so “Hellooo!!” to Mel if she’s still reading.

During our trip if we weren’t driving or eating, we were checking out the pool of whatever hotel we were staying in. The pools (I accidentally typed “poos”, which is ironic) were sub par at best. One had the free-weight equipment right next to the pool, including the exercise balls, which was made into an improved beach ball by a group of drunk youth. Another pool was totally grody to the point you couldn’t see the bottom and the chlorine levels were so high, we choked on the fumes. And for some reason, I can’t remember the third…whatever. It sucked, too.

One of the best parts of the trip was Garden of the Gods. It was the only site the kids asked to see again, so we actually went back the next day when everyone was wearing shoes instead of flip-flops and I wasn’t wearing white pants.

On our last full day, we took the cog wheel railway up Pike’s Peak. When I researched ticket prices, I thought they were a tad high, but after all was said and done, they were worth the $40 per adult (children’s are lower). I was surprised when Aitch fell asleep literally in my arms on the way up. The gentle swaying of the train, the ceaseless noise and the fresh air did her in.

(Still 2,000 more feet to go until we reached the top)

The day couldn’t have been better for a trip up the mountain. It was above 80 when we left the station and 50 at the peak (windchill around 40-something), but clear and relatively calm. The next morning as we were leaving Colorado Springs, you couldn’t even see the mountain range.

Doodicus enjoyed a couple donuts at the top and some photo opportunities with his dad as I was inside the gift shop (tourist trap) trying to make Aitch happy after she woke up cold and in unfamiliar surroundings. She was easily appeased with a stuffed fox that she dressed up in her bracelets all the way back down the mountain, which is when she also discovered a hole in one of its seams (cheap touristy crap!).

Aitch did really well on the entire vacation, only asking to go home the day before we actually did. At the last hotel we stayed at, I slept with her. I was already awake when the next morning I got to watch her come out of her slumber. She opened her eyes, saw me and smiled. Then she reached out her little arms and pulled me in for a kiss. Seriously, that girl heals me in so many ways. Potty training started almost suddenly the weekend before and even though we traveled long distances with her in a diaper, she wore underwear most of the time (with the exception of bedtime) without incident.

Doodicus liked the rock scrambling and the arcade at the travel center in Grand Island. What can I say? He’s nine-teen going on four. I was thankful for the meds which kept me from clubbing him with a rock when he made the “this is lame” statement.

We found most everyone to be friendly and warm, and not just staff. Something those here in Nebraska who spew the most about “Midwestern Values” should take note of. It’s beautiful out there. I strongly recommend you make a trip to the Colorado Springs area.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like Water Off A Duck’s Ass

That’s how many of the things that would bother me before feel now. I’m almost wishing Sparring Partner was taking ADs as well and then maybe he wouldn’t blow his fuse every time Doodicus opened his mouth.

I can’t help but wonder if I had done this three years ago, would I have lost my job? Isn’t that crazy? What ifs still haunt me, but it’s been a long time since I thought about my ex-boss in a way that wouldn’t be considered premeditation in a court. Obviously part of it is finding a very comparable job after two and half years of looking, looking, and looking, but I no longer miss where I worked or who I worked with.

I’m still trying to square out the sleep issues. The ambien gets me to sleep, but doesn’t keep me there. I’m tossing and turning by 3:00 am. NOT taking the ambien means a little longer getting to sleep, but I’m once again tossing and turning by 3:00 am. I’ll keep my eyes open (literally?) for other options to the suppository-sized gelcaps of melatonin from my last post. I admit that I reread the instructions to make sure they WEREN’T suppositories.

ADs: not for everyone, but seriously? If you’re a hot, angry mess of tears and rage, I would strongly recommend.

Speaking of a hot, angry mess, Sparring Partner and I are considering finishing our basement. We didn’t when we built the house just because we had no idea how we wanted it finished. We have about 2,000 sq ft to work with and plumbing for one bathroom and a kitchenette already dropped in addition to one large bedroom space already framed but not walled.

SP said that he’s going to have a dropped ceiling installed. I said “you’re fucking insane!” That’s only the first of hundreds of disagreements this next adventure holds for us. I also want heated flooring and sound barriers installed in the ceiling and walls since HE wants to have a media center. Aaaaannnnnd….? yeah, that’s all I’ve got in mind so far.

Do you have a finished basement? What should we consider? What should we avoid? It’s a walk-out to the backyard and patio. This is the view from the outside, except now there’s grass and we decided the propane tank would look better about 100 yards away.

 

I’m Tired of Being “One out of X”

My sister, who I haven’t seen for about six years, is visiting this summer with her kids from overseas. They live in the Middle East and her oldest daughter is in her tweens. My sister asked that I order a swimsuit that they picked out on-line that consisted of a rash guard and board shorts. Conservative, but not nearly as conservative as the one she packed with her.

I ordered the suit and then in a bone-head move that could only be contributed to being the daughter of a woman who is slipping swiftly and surely into senility, I’ve lost the shopping bag with the suit in it.

I KNOW, RIGHT?!!

I offered to take her shopping so we could find something else, but I was reminded it had to go to “here and here!” or else she’d have to wear the traditional swimsuit. My niece was rolling her eyes and giving me the neck-slashing signal behind her mother’s back, a “no way in hell am I wearing that!” move. I told her that she won’t feel too out-of-place. My swimsuit also went to “here and here!” on me, “because I can no longer be in the sun,” and Sparring Partner, hitch-hiking on the conversation corrected, “no, you don’t want to be in the sun.”

With guests in the house, I could only change the subject. But now I’m rerunning what he said in my mind and getting angry. Does he not realize I had skin cancer? Does he not realize that I will probably get it again, only sooner with sun exposure?? Does he not realize that after 40 years of exposing myself to the sun’s rays, I have to hope that I can spend the next 40 avoiding them?!

For the past several years, I’ve been dealing with shit statistics: “Infertility affects 1 in 6 couples,” and now I have this to contend with, “Malignant Melanoma kills 1 in 7 diagnosed with the cancer.” It was hard enough explaining to him how I felt being part of the first group. Am I going to be beating my head against a brick wall on the second one?

 

The Royal Pain-in-the-Asses

Monday, normally the most derided day of the week, has been a godsend. It meant the end of the weekend. It wasn’t because of one major incident, but an accumulation of lowlights, only beginning Saturday afternoon when we all rushed out the door early to make it to Easter Mass at 5:30. We had dressed up and had sufficiently prepared Aitch’s diaper bag for the hour-and-a-half (minimum) we’d be sitting/standing/kneeling. I wasn’t screaming for everyone to hurry out the door.

When we pulled around the corner, I had a flashback to the prior year: we had arrived for an Easter Mass that wasn’t taking place. They preferred that the congregation make Sunday’s Mass since that is actually Easter so there was only one scheduled for Saturday. At 8:45 p.m. I’m sure the kids would be angels that late in evening. Apparently we have inadvertently started our own Easter tradition. Take note for next year.

When we got home, I changed and made a last-minute dash to WalMart for the kids’ Easter baskets. I was returning to my car after getting some things and saw a POS car with two adults in the front and a toddler standing between the bucket-seats as they drove through the parking lot. Coincidentally, they parked at the end of the row I was exiting and I watched them exit their car and walk towards the store. I parked next to their car and left this note on their windshield:

“Cute little boy you have. I hope you never have to watch him crash through your windshield because you are too lazy/high/selfish to buckle him in a carseat.”

I am unapologetic in my judgment.

The highlight of my weekend was later that night when I enjoyed a couple of beers with some friends we hadn’t seen in years. I climbed into bed right before 2:00 a.m., right after I prepared baskets and hid eggs filled with treats. I forgot to mention that I had found out early Saturday that one of my siblings wasn’t coming up for Easter. That’ll be important to note.

Sunday started way too early. Doodicus was up before 6:00 and scoping out where all the eggs were hidden. So by the time Aitch got up an hour later, he ran through the house picking up ALL the eggs leaving his baby sister in the dust. Luckily she didn’t care once she discovered there was candy in the egg she HAD found. My husband had to be nagged out of bed. Within two hours of waking, he was snoring on the couch.

I was chilling out as well, checking out Facebook while the kids gorged themselves on chocolate and taffy. I went to wish an IRL friend happy birthday and happened to notice that the Friends In Common looked off: My SIL and her daughter, who I had bravely accepted as FB friends months ago, were not pictured. They had conspired to unfriend me at the same time and within the preceding 24 hours of me noticing.

Sparring Partner suggested that they figured there wasn’t any dirt to get from my updates so they dumped me. I hope that’s true since I had my filters set up to not be visible to the people I knew in real life. However, Facebook has let me down before. I’m still undecided as to whether I will confront either of them. I know that ultimately, I shouldn’t care. They made their decision and raising a stink isn’t going to help anything except to satisfy my selfish curiosity. I didn’t take it all lying down though: I blocked her, her kids, and her husband from being able to even see me on FB as well as deleted all the tags I had on the photos of her grandkids from my albums so they will no longer show up in their photos. I’m Queen of the passive-aggressive.

And finally, SIL was hosting Easter lunch at her home but we hadn’t heard what time to be there, so my SP called and was surprised to hear, “In 15 minutes.” Why didn’t anyone tell us? he asked. “Yo-yo Mama said you were having Easter with her family.” Now that was true up until I found out my sister wasn’t going to be able to come up. I guess it was my failure to inform her and I felt like a schmuck. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with Aitch just going down for a nap and Doodicus didn’t want to go. So SP went by himself. I was actually relieved.

Apparently, I’m the Queen of Passive-Aggressive.

And Aitch is Princess Star Wars:

And Doodicus is our silly Jester:

 

I Will NOT Google Body Dysmorphic Disorder

This is me in my new swimsuit, purchased with the hopes of buying me a few extra years before I die of skin cancer. Oh, c’mon! We all know it’ll happen. Sooner rather than later. I just hope it’ll lean a little towards the later so I can see my own kids become parents (if that’s what they want to do…).

Actually, this is how I see myself when I look in the mirror. When I went through the infertility treatments and the miscarriages, my weight and size just kept climbing. Before the stress of it all packed on, my husband had it easy. All he had to do was memorize one number when it came to shopping for me: 7. Shoes, hat-size, jeans, etc. and that was after I had Doodicus. Before that, I would hit the clearance racks at Banana Republic and snap up all the size 2 items for a song.

I hit my second highest weight right before getting pregnant with Aitch, but I was ecstatic when breastfeeding brought me back down closer to my goal, one that let me wear everything I still had in my closet, and comfortably! I was really hoping it would eventually lead to this:

And then I lost my job one month shy of my 10-year anniversary, and I had a renewed case of loathing for who I am. I don’t think I ate more, I just did less. And then one day I asked my husband, “Does it look like I’m gaining weight?” and without the hesitation that you see in the commercial where President Lincoln’s wife asks him if she looks fat, Sparring Partner answered simply and quickly, “Yes.” But he didn’t stop there, “Haven’t you had to buy some new jeans up-a-size this year?”

If I wasn’t such a hardened bitch, I would have crumpled to the floor and cried my weight in tears. I’ve tried to watch what I eat, but I can honestly say that my diet isn’t excessive. So I signed up for a membership at the Y and started Zumba and weight-lifting. It’s been over two months and even though I go to one of the two classes every week-day, I still haven’t lost any weight. Or I don’t think so. The last time I stepped on a scale was about a month ago, right before I did go buy some new jeans (it was get some new jeans or find someone to invent a bra with a built-in muffin-top holder).

FYI: it’s true what Stacy and Clinton say. Wear clothes that fit you now, not the clothes you hope to fit into. Wearing a pair of jeans that didn’t make every knit top I have look like I was shoplifting kielbasa is a mood-booster for sure.

I try not to beat myself up mentally over what is most likely just a simple case of aging, but it’s hard to not think about where did my youth go? I feel like so much of it was wasted. On what? I don’t know and that brings me full circle. I want to be one of those women who march into their 50s content, empowered, and yet still beautiful, but I’m mired in what feels like an endless funk. I look at this picture and I remind myself that I’m not as much of a lost cause as I sometimes perceive myself to be, but I want to be better. Physically and mentally.

 

Photo-Op: The Shop

I really have nothing to add as far as descriptions to this post. I mean, if you had to, could you really say anything more to what you are taking in visually? You’ve already seen just snippets of our garage, yet another project that we haven’t finished as far as getting it organized since we moved in. That’s the problem with having space made bigger than average: More room to throw the crap.

Heather, who also asked to see our closets, suggested Sparring Partner’s shop.

Be afraid.

Be VERY afraid.

He knew I was taking these pictures. He said if I post them on my blog, he’ll divorce me. Sssshhhhhh, don’t tell him.

 

Little Annoyances

Yes, I’m blowing off the Photo Ops. It’s called “procrastination”. Get use to it.

Tailor Wannabe?

My husband noticed that I had “fabric glue” written and struck through on the grocery list, because during one of my errands I picked up a bottle. Sparring partner asked what kind I got and I just looked at him stupefied. “Uh, the kind that glues…fabric…?” As if he knows anything about fabric glue.

Related:

I used the fabric glue to adhere some fleur di lis patches to the back of my daughter’s jeans, which were initially very plain. To ensure good adhesion and to keep them flat, I grabbed a concrete paver from the front deck to lay on the jeans while the glue dried. I finished my project and hung up the jeans and set aside the brick. Sparring Partner asked why it was in the closet of the bedroom. I explained. Are you going to take it back outside? he asked. If it bothers you, take it out now. I responded. Hurumph was his reply. I just walked past the closet. The brick is still sitting there. Apparently it bothers him enough to roll his eyes at me but not so much to take care of it himself.

GAH!-la

My ex-employer has an annual fund-raiser. It’s a hoity-toity affair. During my employment I did attend a couple of times. Since I’m no longer employed there, I don’t go. Obviously. My SIL works there so she’s always getting FIL involved with contributions. He asked Sparring Partner if we want to go to the fundraiser and my this was husband’s response, “Not just no….”

I “contributed” ten years of my life there for what?? Did I ever tell you how my ex-boss emailed me while I was on maternity leave “strongly urging” me to make sure I contribute to the expansion project?! I did and was fired a month later. If that wasn’t enough, when the stalking co-worker gave my ex-boss a sob story about her empty pockets, he contributed in HER name. Oh boo-hoo, bitch. So, yeah, no. Thanks for the offer, but we won’t be going to the gah-la.

 

Photo Ops: The Closets

Sparring Partner and I would make trips once a year to see what was described as the Street of Dreams inThe Metro. Multi-million dollar homes all custom-built by different builders on one street would be opened to thousands of dirty, hot and stinky strange feet belonging to rubber-neckers, much like ourselves. Since we built, we haven’t been back as I would probably regret many of the decisions we made when we built our own home, not that I don’t have some already.

Closets. That’s what Heather requested a view of as well as the garage, but the garage section is going to require a separate post (you’re doing a happy dance now, aren’t you?). Oh, closets. The Street of Dreams had closets that you could…well, only DREAM of. Humongous walk-in closets. Some so large, that’s where they kept the washer and dryer. Some so large, they had their own center island and furniture. As large as my kids’ rooms. No, larger.

I would have loved to have gigantic closets but I know myself all too well. They would be a catchall for everything else I had no idea where to store. My husband and I agreed to keep both our own closets and the children’s closets realistic and efficient. They’re realistic all right in that there just is never enough storage. First off, we have Doodicus’s closet:

This is exactly how my son leaves it in the morning after getting dressed for school. He has that same ability to fuck up the hangers as my husband does. I apologize well in advance to my future daughter-in-law.

Aitch’s closet actually is on the other side of that wall and is the exact same size, but in a slightly different layout:

I feel I should defend myself by mentioning that all the clothes on the top pole are things she has outgrown and I have been saving for a garage sale. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to part with a lot of it…

Now for our closet. Be prepared to be underwhelmed:

This is how it looks standing on the bedroom looking in, and I swear I didn’t edit or pick up anything (which, DER!…).  I strongly recommend pocket doors whenever possible, but make sure you use quality fixtures or they’ll be a bitch to open and close.

This is the husband’s side and yes, there are a lot of t-shirts on the top row, organized (L-R) by colored t’s, white t’s and then polos and button ups. Long-sleeved shirts are kept on the bottom. I do the organizing, by the way, not Sparring Partner.

And now my side:

Uh, yeah. It is organized. In a way…long-sleeves on top (there’s a whole section of tanks that you can’t see), short-sleeves and rarely worn on the bottom. 50% of all my clothes need to be removed because I’m getting too big for them (I would rather say, “They are too small for me.” but that’s really denial.).

I don’t have a medicine cabinet or I’d sneak that in here with this, you snoops.

 

Photo Ops: Breakfast

Ah, breakfast. The most important meal of the day.

Left up to be provided by the two Old People of the family who want nothing more than to just stay in bed. Stupid plan, Mother Nature, stupid.

It doesn’t help that the Young People want nothing to do with sitting down for 15 minutes to eat when they’ve been sleeping for the past nine hours and feel they must play. with. everything. at. once. Who needs caffeine when they have a supernatural supply of it coursing through their blood?

So breakfast is a simple affair on school days. Toast or cereal. Maybe a quick egg with toast. Doodicus doesn’t eat well. One of his medication’s side effect is that it’s an appetite suppressor, so if we didn’t give a shit, he could go all day without eating. Breakfast can be a bit of a battle, except on the weekends. That’s when we do a big breakfast, but it’s usually later in the morning, at 8:00 or 8:30 instead of 6:30.

This is just a regular day: Doodicus is having cereal without milk on it (he doesn’t like it to get soggy) and then he drinks a glass of milk. Aitch is on this kick where she has to have at least two bowls of cereal – separated of course – and then some OJ. Sparring Partner’s breakfast is usually toast or an english muffin and the ever familiar glass of Carnation instant breakfast, a staple for his breakfast every morning ever he was 9 years old. We even have to have it when we go on vacations or overnight trips.

I only WISH I was kidding.

Me? I’m usually cupping my coffee like a lover and refereeing the bickering between any two of the other three people in the vicinity. Good thing they’re cute.

P.S. Ooops! Almost forgot to include that this request came from Betty. Sorry, my sweet.

 

29 of 30: Done and DONE!

With Love Chartreuse Christmas Card

Shop Shutterfly.com for elegant Christmas photo cards.

View the entire collection of cards.

 

8 of 30: Trading Spaces

We’ve been living in our house for 5 years. We did not go whole-hog when we built by financing everything down to the ninth throw pillows on the bed. Instead we tackle interiors and landscaping one room/section at a time.

Most of you have seen the exterior of our home and probably envision the interior to be finished with lovely textures and colors and knickknacks up the ass, but really it’s as dull as dirt. No room is really finished. The closest is the kitchen but even that is awaiting some finishing I’ve been wanting to do since we moved in.

The windows in question are at the back.

This year, Sparring Partner and I have agreed to purchase window treatments for the living room as a Christmas gift to each other. When we selected the windows and their trim, we originally thought we didn’t want to put any treatments on the windows. We didn’t need to worry about privacy and we didn’t want to hamper the one of a kind view. However, as time has passed, we realize that we need to soften up the wall that is now all glass and mission-style trim.

The Front Yard

I love pattern and I have a very eclectic, but sometimes-traditional style. My husband is not crazy about bright colors or big patterns, but the room can easily handle both as it has an 18 foot vaulted ceiling. The only limitation in color we have is that it must coordinate with the wall color, a dove grey. I do not plan on painting for a very, very long time. The furniture is temporary: until the kids are older (leather is a godsend when you have young kids).

So now I’m looking for your suggestions on type of treatments for the windows below. I’m leery of anything that would require damaging the wood, but whatever can be put on the wall directly is fair game. Actually, any ideas would be welcome. You might envision something I never would have thought of on my own.

 

Drib. Drab.

I tried this because it said it was “created especially for adult skin”.

Yeah, that would work except I don’t have adult skin. I have teen-ager’s skin: a t-zone and zits.

Crazy thing is, I’ve tried other products from this manufacturer and I’ve hated them all. Glutton? Meet Punishment. My dear husband likes the creamy facial cleanser. He uses it on his backside when he gets chaffed from the heat. But don’t tell him I told you

I then tried this stuff. Thrilled, I tell you. A bit drying, but with an oil slick like I’ve got going on, I need all the tar-ball cleaning up I can get.

Sadly, every time I look at the name, I think of poor, dead Billy Mayes: “Don’t just get clean; get OXY clean!! *ssssnnorrrt*”

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So I bought a set of measuring spoons from Target a few weeks ago. Aitch broke my set while helping me make pancakes one morning. That girl is like a pink, tutu-wearing Hulk. She just doesn’t know her own strength! Just tonight, she was sitting on the couch watching a movie and nursing one of those take-n-toss sippy cups full of milk. All of the sudden, after being quiet to the point of almost nodding off, she gasped and jumped. I quickly figured out that she had somehow managed to pull the lid off with her teeth sending the cold milk right back into her face. I laughed at her, of course.

Anyhoo, Sparring Partner didn’t like the set I got so I had to return them. I handed the spoons and the receipt to the cashier at the customer service counter and she couldn’t get the scanner to recognize the bar code. She asked if I had a check from the account I purchased them with. Yes, but I told her I’m not giving her one just for that (I’m not tearing out one of my checks when she has the stupid receipt right in front of her). She said that she won’t be able to process the return since the receipt was so faded.

I didn’t say anything, but fumed quietly while she eventually keyed in the numbers from the receipt and handed me change, a bit snottily I might add. I was tempted to tell her that the receipt hadn’t “faded”. It was because there wasn’t enough ink in the register to give a quality print out. Not my fucking problem.

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I have another appointment with the plastic surgeon Wednesday. I’m hoping he’ll take the stitches out of my left foot even though he didn’t put them in. He’s kind of an asshole, before you assume that of course he would. I also am looking forward to getting the tagaderm off the back of my thigh covering the graft area. It sticks to the toilet seat and that’s a bit disconcerting if you think about it.

I’m still limping, but not as noticeably. I’m still quite squicked out when it’s time for changing the wound dressing and glad Sparring Partner is willing. He told me that he’s taking good care of it because he wants to be able to use my leg as a coaster once it heals. That and the ass-chaffing…wow. It’s hard to believe he’s allllll mine. Till death do us part and all that jazz, wouldn’t you know.

 

Polarized

Last night I crawled into bed shortly after putting Aitch down. Sparring Partner and Doodicus were at a local football game and so the house was quiet.

I turned on my bed so that I was facing the video monitor which showed she had quickly fallen asleep, curled up on her side with Corncorn cuddled to her face. I was overwhelmed with the urge to go to her room, pick her up, and bring her to bed with me so I could cuddle with her like she was cuddling that stuffed unicorn. She’s my lifeline right now as I feel myself fall into yet another bout of depression.

It’s like she’s the only “normal” person living in this home. Doodicus’s issues with school and his current pre-adolescent stage filled with belligerence and rude behaviour makes me not want to be around him. I’m happy to let him play video games so I don’t have to listen to him whine or cry or stomp his feet when I tell him to pick up his toys.

Sparring Partner and I are…

…are what, I can’t really say. We are housemates who have children together. If I try to tell him I am sad or scared or unhappy, somehow we end up arguing and finger-pointing. So, I don’t tell him I’m sad and scared and unhappy.

That brings me back to Aitch. When it comes to her needs and demands, which sometimes make me feel expended because of everything else, I know right now she’s what keeps me centered as the rest of my life seems to spin out of balance. Ironically, it will only be a matter of time before her own life’s story about her donor becomes a source of anxiety. Until then, I gaze at her wistfully, polarized by my need to be as close to her as possible and the need to escape.

 

Wordless Wednesday: Joy & Trust