OK, so you've probably gotten the sense that The News was pretty bad. Yeah, it's freaking scary, and we are getting a sense of the full scope of the problem but we don't yet have all the puzzle pieces fit together to figure out WTF it all means. We are now smack dab in the middle of one of those weird times where nothing seems real and it is almost impossible to remember that everyone else is just chugging along with their daily lives while we thrash around helplessly in the muck, our toes scrabbling desperately for a hint of something solid.
I have already learned some interesting things, though. Did you know that when someone in your household gets a really bad diagnosis, one that has the very real likelihood of being life-threatening, you still have to go to work and talk to customers on the phone and care about their problems? And, you still have to go grocery shopping and feed people and take out the trash. And those flower beds don't weed themselves, you know. And if you don't keep up with the housework (read: you don't have the cleaning lady come often enough) your son will break out in hives from his low-level dog allergy, which makes you a Very Bad Mom on top of everything else.
Who knew? I can't say I think it's fair. I always kind of assumed that when something happens that FREAKS you the hell OUT like that, you get a "Get Out Of Shit Free" card. Well, mine hasn't shown up in the mail yet.
I have to confess that I have discovered how weak I really am. I have found myself self-medicating on a regular basis. It started out fairly innocently, just once or twice that first week when things were super fucked up, and I swore that I'd stop as soon as we found ourselves on solid ground, but I'm afraid it's turned into an almost daily thing. I rely on it now, even after I swore earlier this year I was done for good and I'd never take it up again.
Yes, I'm drinking diet soda again. And not the stuff in the cans, either -- it's gotta be the stuff from the fast food places on ice. Sometimes I even get a large, which doesn't even fit in the cupholder of my car and takes two hands to maneuver.
Of course I'm ashamed of myself, but it's not enough to make me stop. I know my body will pay for the chemical abuse I'm heaping on it, but I don't care.
I need it and it helps, if even for a few minutes.
Then again, if that's the worst habit I pick up during this, I think I'm doing OK.