Reflections upon leaving mid-life

I turned 51 last weekend. It wasn't a big deal until I realized that I could no longer legitimately say I was in mid-life. I mean, women to tend to live longer than men and all, but my gene pool simply does not support reaching the age of 102.

I guess that means I am about as grown-up as I'm going to get. That's somewhat sobering, although I am kind of relishing taking on the role of crotchety, eccentric old bat.

This last chunk (third? fourth?) of my life is certainly not starting out as I had envisioned. Wrapping my head around being single for what may be the rest of my life is turning out to be quite a challenge. At this point I've been married for well over half my life and I (naively) assumed the pattern would continue unchanged. Fer chrissakes, the base of my ring finger is still the size it was when I was 19. I wonder if it will ever fill out, or if it's doomed to stay in its stunted state, like the bound feet of an old Chinese woman.

The other thing that happened this week that got me to a-pondering was that Mr. B's older, single sister, (we'll call her Sr. B) passed away from cancer a couple of days ago. I was not one of her favorite people (long, boring story there) but I am the only one resembling family nearby, so I am the one that was called. I sat with her in the hospital as she passed.

Even though she wasn't really conscious, I talked to her. I told her about the lunar eclipse on Monday, what my personal vision of the afterlife was like, and other random crap. I told her everything here would be taken care of so she could go when she was ready. I told her I knew I wasn't the one she would have chosen to be there, but it meant a lot to me to know that she was comfortable and safe in the hospital, rather than dying alone on her cold, hard kitchen floor surrounded by her four cats (which very nearly happened.) The whole scene was eerily familiar, as it was almost three months ago that I had done the exact same thing (well, except for that part about the cats and the kitchen floor) with Mr. B.

(Can you imagine getting that phone call? Even though she had 'banished' me a few weeks before Mr. B died, I would never have been able to forgive myself.)

Regardless of that shakes out going forward, I am grateful that I can put my 'angel of death' costume away before I shut the door on 2010. Two deathbeds in three months is plenty. Looking forward to finding a new hobby for 2011.
 

Same old, same old

Yeah, I've not been doing too well with the blogging thing lately, have I?

Oh, I think about writing all sorts of things, but when it comes time to actually put black pixels on white background, it just sounds like more of the same old shit. "My husband died! It sucks! I'm depressed! Waaaah-fucking-waaahh!"

You think you're tired of reading it? You can't imagine how sick I am of thinking it.

Luckily, I am making progress with the depression thing -- turned out to be a simple dosage tweak, a really obnoxious full-spectrum light, and a handful of supplements. It's only been a week but I'm feeling better already. Unfortunately, that hasn't stopped the suckage of the last six months from repeatedly beating me about the head and shoulders, but it is nice to be able to leave the couch long enough to get my own fucking TV remote.

Here's something new: Seeing Mr. B's stuff around the house, looking at photos, thinking about him, etc. is actually getting more painful. In the early days, it was very comforting to see his hats on the hat rack, wear his pajama pants, visit his Facebook page, etc.; in fact, I craved it. But recently I find myself going out of my way to avoid all of it.

Isn't that weird?

Not sure what to do about it, other than start getting rid of stuff, but I'm hesitant to do anything I might regret later. Although I will probably shut down the Facebook page soon. The email reminders from FB can be really disturbing: "Mr. B! Let your friends know what you're up to!" It's very tempting to pull out the old Francisco Franco routine from SNL.

Wait for it...


I read somewhere that if you write down all the symptoms, grief really is a form of (usually self-limiting) mental illness. Yep, I'll buy that.
 

Oh shut up

I'm telling ya, I shouldn't allow myself to post when I'm feeling good.

I swear, it's almost like I don't even remember writing that last post. I don't know who the cocky twit is who wrote it but right now I want to bitch slap her.

No lie, it seems like almost as soon as I finished publicly preening over how BEAU-tifully I was doing, I crashed. The whole week since has been one of the hardest yet. In fact, I'm starting to see signs that it's not just yer common, garden variety grieving going on... it may be time to (gulp!) tweak the meds.

I HATE having to admit that, but I am grateful as all hell that I've had enough experience to know when it's beyond my control and it's time to call in the experts.

I realized recently that December 2010 marks TEN YEARS since I first started on anti-depressants. I remember still what a huge relief it was, after twenty years of toughing out the "dark times" curled up in a ball on the couch, rolling my eyes and snapping at the Ex like a hormonal tortoise, hollering at Lovely Daughter to climb a flight of stairs to bring me the TV remote that was ten feet away from me, and asking the doc to test my thyroid "just one more time" only to see the results come back normal again, to have those blue pills make the life-sucking cloud of Dementors* lift and fade for good.

I was so grateful to just feel normal. It was kind of pathetic, really.

*(Sorry for the gratuitous Harry Potter ref, I'm gearing up for Deathly Hallows. Squee!)

Sure, I've stepped in puddles of dark since, but they've been brief and shallow. The last one big enough register was four years ago -- almost exactly, oddly enough -- around the end of my 26-year marriage. I changed meds for a few months, but then I met Mr. B and it no longer seemed to be an issue, IYKWIM. Nothing will get your brain chemicals right faster than a bucketful of burning love. That's some good shit, mon.

Funny thing is, it hadn't occurred to me that I might run into trouble this time. I'm that used to being normal, and although I'm proud of that, WTF was I thinking? This particular Fucking Growth Opportunity is a gobazillionity times harder than the divorce, due to the divorce lacking an actual death. Of course my neurotransmitter tanks would be running completely dry by now. Duh. What a maroon.

If I want to have any chance of keeping the dirty dishes from piling up on the floor and Young Son fed on something other than Blue Box and grilled cheese sandwiches through the winter (Not lyin'. Ask Lovely Daughter about her childhood comfort foods) I figure I have two choices: I can do it "naturally" -- hit the dating sites hard, find someone to stuff in the Mr. B-shaped hole, and hope for the magic to strike twice -- or I can go to a professional and get hooked up. With the right meds, not guys.

I think this time I'll go pro. Bound to be much easier in the long run. This last round of the Dating Game had a pretty brutal finale.
 

U'r doing it wrong

Everyone keeps telling me there are no rules for grieving, but I still feel like I'm doing it wrong.

It's only been just shy of two months since Mr. B died, and I am (mostly) back in one piece. The events of the last five months have faded, almost to the point of seeming unreal.

I keep poking myself (mentally, you pervs) searching for signs that I'm kidding myself, and that there's still a big wad of something festering inside that I haven't gotten to yet.

I'm not finding it.

I keep coming to the conclusion that I have reached a pretty good perspective on my relationship with Mr. B, the good and not-so-much. I am at peace (most of the time) with the fact that the rest of my life is not going to go the way I thought. How one phone call in June changed everything.

Oh, I still have bad days, but they don't hurt as bad or last as long. Sometimes I still feel gypped, but it no longer comes with the side order of blinding rage.

I feel disloyal admitting that I'm doing OK. It hasn't even been two months, for fuck's sake! I should be in more pain. Shouldn't I still be in more pain? I keep looking but it's not there.

What's worse, I keep going back to the dating site (not match.com this time). I find myself looking for profiles that show originality and wit (and, I admit, decent grammar). It's quite a challenge, believe me, but that's a post for another day. At first I really was looking for Mr. B, but now I find myself wondering what some of these guys are really like. Still don't have a desire to act on it, but is it really OK to look?

I dunno. It doesn't seem right, somehow. But that doesn't seem to stop me.

It's really hard for me to write this because so many of my twelves of readers know me personally and most of the rest knew Mr. B, but I feel I need to be honest about this process, 'cause otherwise, what's the point?

I still feel like I'm doing it wrong, but I can't figure out how to do it "right" and still be true to myself.
 

10 months, 2 weeks, 2 days

I can't even believe that was just one year ago. Yeah, as you might suspect, today kinda sucks. Luckily I had enough foresight to take off work.

I'd originally thought I'd want to spend today looking at wedding photos and memorabilia, but the truth is I can barely stand even thinking about our trip to Vegas. I'd even considered getting a tattoo today but I don't think that's going to happen. As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, I am not exactly the Queen of Acting Out, or even the Duchess of Impulsive Decisions. Oh well. It would have been a grand gesture, though.

Instead, I'll be leaving the house shortly and running errands most of today. Later on I'm meeting Pal P for dinner. Then I'll pick up Young Son, come home, and spend the remnant of the evening staring at something stupid on the Teevee. Way to commemorate the occasion, eh?

Sometime in the next few days I'll probably pack up The Shrine, a bulletin board over the sideboard in the dining room where I've been posting all the cards and letters I've received. I may even pack up the remaining wedding memorabilia (the Yay! flags and origami flowers) that has (have? has?) been sitting on my bedroom dresser for a year. No idea what I'm going to do with my dress -- there's no way I can ever wear is again and looking at it in my closet does not make me happy. And his suit was pretty expensive. I can't imagine getting rid of it but it doesn't make sense to keep it, either.

The worst thing, though, is that sometime last weekend between 10 am Friday and 10 am Saturday I lost Mr. B's wedding band. I'd been wearing it on my thumb since I sent him off with the funeral home guys. I'd thought of putting it away today, since it was a little loose and kept threatening to slip off, but instead it's disappeared. I'm trying to be a good sport about it, telling myself that Mr. B just wanted it back, but it doesn't always work.

We were married for ten months, two weeks, and two days. I keep trying but there's no way I can convince myself I'm OK with that.

To summarize: It sucks. It all sucks.

(I wonder how many times I've used that word since June? Probably a lot.)
 

Wherein things get a little weird

I tried. I cut myself all sorts of slack, removed all expectations, and I still couldn't do it. I really hate-hate-hate to quit, but I'm bailing on this year's NaNoWriMo.

I'm just not feeling it this year. It's just not happening. Since (for me) NaNo is for entertainment purposes only, I figger there is absolutely no point in me feeling bad about doing badly -- so badly, in fact, that today I can't even bring myself to open the document I've been working on for the past three days. Yes, it's five thousand and fifty-three words of "that bad." Not enough lipstick in the world to make that pig look good, IYKWIM.

My mistake was not following my own advice. To be fair, though, I couldn't have. What with helping Mr. B graduate to the next dimension and all, there just wasn't enough mental energy available to spend on giving a red, ripe rat's ass. I think that's a valid excuse, don't you?

Speaking of next dimension, my latest random coping technique is a sudden and unwavering faith in George Anderson and John Edward, those mediums who can communicate with the spirits of the dead. I've decided that I believe them with all my heart, everything they say is true, and that Mr. B is hanging around me -- and his pals if needed -- kind of like a guardian angel. So far it's working out pretty well. He gave me a great sunrise the other day. I do kind of blame him for letting me down with the whole NaNo thing, but I suppose I can only ask so much.

Oh, wait, here's a good one. Ready for this? The other day I found myself searching on Match.com. WTF is up with that? It took me a day or two to realize that I was actually searching for Mr. B. I knew it was time to back away when I got an email with the subject line: "Mr. B* in Seattle is a match for you!" I almost shit myself before I realized it wasn't actually him. That was the end of Match.com.

I guess that means the lonely is setting in. And it's the inside kind of lonely, not the kind that can be fixed by being with people. No way past it but through it, I suppose.

I'll leave you with something fun: Young Son got this in his trick or treat bag.

"I got a rock."
I think it's brilliant! I know what I'm handing out next year.

* Of course it didn't say Mr. B, but it did have his first name, spelled properly, which is not the common way. And that's a no-shitter.
 

Yep

Just thought I'd check in and say hi. I've been hesitant to write because most of what's going through my head is the same old stuff; missing Mr. B, punctuated by a fair amount of magical thinking, throbbing sinuses, garment-rending, and even a little surreptitious ululating. It's keeping me pretty preoccupied but I'm sure reading about that shit gets old real quick.

So I'll just sum it up this way: Yep, it still sucks. But I'm going to work (almost) every day and I'm taking care of business. I'm even keeping up with the dishes, which is an amazing development. But enough of that.

I do have something fun for you, so this trip won't be a total loss. I just found this pic on my cell phone. I snapped it in the parking lot of the funeral home when my Girl Posse and I went to pick up Mr. B's ashes.


Isn't it awesome? We laughed our asses off. Of course there was a tinge of hysteria in it, but it was great comic relief. We spent way too much time wondering if it was meant to convey "embalm you," or perhaps the nickname of a school of mortuary science, "Embalm U." The jury's still out.

While I'm at it, here's another good one from that day. Here's the bag they gave me to transport the box of his mortal remains.



What in the hell am I supposed to do with it now? It's too nice to just throw out, but I can't quite see myself using it as a gift bag... or maybe I could, in the right circumstance. I do know some folks with Significant Birthdays (meaning divisible by five) coming up. Hmmm...

OK, enough with the gallows humor. Next time I'll tell you whether I decided to start NaNoWriMo 2010 on Monday. It would suck to break a two year winning streak, but that will depend on whether I can stop ululating long enough to think up a story.

Oh, and have a lovely, sugar-filled Halloween. I'm not handing out candy, but that might not be enough to stop a bag of peanut M&Ms from finding its way into my house.
 

Switch

It's been really interesting, over the past few weeks, watching myself go back and forth from left-brain to right-brain mode; from thinking to feeling, from rational to emotional, and back again. I can't seem to inhabit both halves of my head at the same time -- it's pretty either-or. I don't quite hear an audible click when the switch occurs, but I haven't really listened for it.

As long as I'm in left-brain, thinking mode, I can make phone calls to close out accounts, fill out paperwork, and talk to people about all sorts of practical, day-to-day matters. I can even go to work and get things done.

Somehow, the universe smiled at me and I ended up in thinking mode for most of Mr. B's memorial service Sunday. It worked out pretty well; I was able to get everything set up at the church, make it through the service without looking like I'd been beat with a baseball bat -- I'm not exactly a delicate weeper -- and meet and greet many, many people Mr. B had told me about but never had a chance to introduce me to. It was good day, full of sharing and laughter and stuff like that.

But when my right brain kicks in, usually when I'm tired or driving in the car (WTF is up with that, BTW?), I am reduced to a huge ball of raw, writhing Feel-eens.

Last night I was pulling the photos of Mr. B off the boards we set up at the service, and it hit me upside the head like a large, wet carp: I still love him like a crazy person. I still have an awful, ridiculous crush on him. I fell in love with his high school picture, the one with the serious bed-head. I fell in love with the picture of him in his late teens, playing with his two young nephews, and again with the picture of him standing on the ice in the Arctic in his 30s. I fell in love with the picture he had taken of himself with his cat, probably for an online dating profile after his divorce in his early 40s. It was brutal, falling in love over and over again with that man I can't ever have. What's even worse, I did have him for just a little bit, then I lost him.

It hurts like all shades of holy hell.

In Feel-een mode, I can't stop my eyes from filling up at random, highly inopportune times. My social filters don't work right. I find myself over-sharing (shocked - I know!) details about the less-than-optimal parts of our relationship. Don't know why I do it, other than maybe I want someone to tell me it's not my fault.

What I want is for him to tell me it's not my fault.

I feel shitty about things I wish I had done differently. I wish I had been more assertive with him about getting a sample in to the doctor when he started coughing up 'stuff' over a year ago. But... our quiet, passive Mr. B was blessed with a huge 'Don't Boss Me' button and I tried really hard to respect that. It was a huge challenge, because I am such a mom. Such a nag. I wanted to do better, be more mature. So I didn't push.

Now I find myself whispering "I love you. I'm so sorry, baby," over and over into the pillow that was under his head when he died. Yeah, I kept the pillow. I sleep with it. I even safety-pinned the pillowcase on so I won't get confused and throw it in the wash.

Shut up. At least I no longer sit around with the box of his ashes on my lap.

If I'm lucky, I'll be back in left-brain mode tomorrow. I'll get things accomplished. Maybe even get some groceries in the house and do Poop Patrol. Got to get as much shit done as I can, before the switch flicks back and I end up back in the exquisite hellhole of unrequited love.
 

When words fail

I've heard from a few people in the last few days who confess that they wanted to call/write me earlier, but they just didn't know what to say.

I just want to go on the record as saying I totally get it. I, too, am a member of that club. I am unilaterally lousy at expressing my condolences to folks, to the point of sometimes (gulp) not even sending a card because I was so blocked on what to say. Anything I could come up with seemed completely inadequate and trite.

What's worse, even now I am having trouble playing my part in this... whatever it is. As I've been calling around to cancel accounts and such, the well-trained service rep invariably says something suitable like "I'm so sorry for your loss." All I can come up with is "Thanks. Yeah, it really sucks." There's usually a few seconds of silence after that.

I don't think that's quite what they're expecting from me, but it's all I got.

So, fellow members of the "Ummm...." Club, now that I'm on the receiving end, I can state with authority that it really doesn't matter what you say. Even a bald "I'm sorry, I don't know what to say" works just fine. Who knew it could be so simple?

Another thing I've learned is that sometimes, in lieu of flowers, people send delicious FOOD GIFT BASKETS! How cool, right? I had no idea. I've received a few now and they've been such wonderful treats that I'm stealing the idea.

So there's just a few of the valuable life lessons I've learned so far. All I can say is that by the time I get through this particular Personal Growth Opportunity I'd better fucking glow with wisdom. Just sayin'.
 

Stomp

What if I don't want to get over it? What if I don't ever want to get to the point where it's OK that he's gone? It's not OK, and it'll never be OK. 'Cause it isn't. It's just fucking wrong, on all levels.

That's what my Inner Brat* is saying today.

She pops up from time to time, crossing her arms over her chest, pouting and stomping her feet. She whines a lot. She balks at things that any normal adult would handle without a second thought. (Key word there is "adult".) She's the reason I couldn't change a toilet paper roll for the first fifteen (twenty?) years of my first marriage.

I am not making that up. Yeah, she's got issues.

We've been working on them, especially over the past four years since my first marriage ended. We've made progress. It was hard, trying to sort through old shit while jumping into a new relationship almost before the ink on the divorce decree was dry, but we continued to hack away at the stack and even made some small progress.

However, she's not handling this latest crisis very well. I realized the other day that legally I am no longer married. Talk about a bitch slap! I think that's what got her all riled up.

One thing my Dear Counselor told me recently is that I need to listen to her. She's a valid (albeit slightly dysfunctional) part of me, and she needs to have her voice heard. She needs to be reassured. However, I have to admit, this time I think she may be on to something. I'm not sure this hurt can be soothed with a few pats on the back and pints of Ben & Jerry's. Although that never hurts.

Rest assured that Grownup Me knows that all the comforting things my dear friends IRL and in Cyberspace are saying are absolutely correct: Time will pass and pain will fade. Things will get sorted out and I'll find my way to the New Normal, rev. 4.0.

But it still won't be OK that he's gone. It will never be OK. And right now I can't imagine ever being OK with it.

* See the photo, top left sidebar? Yeah, that's her.
 

What it's like

So it's been a week already. I've discovered that losing Mr. B has been a lot like getting dumped -- and dumped hard -- except I can't be mad at him or key his car or anything. All I can do is FEEL, and feel the feelings about my feelings. It's freaking exhausting.

Evil Twin coined the term "Emotional Whack-a-Mole" and that pretty much sums it up. I'll be at the store or sitting at the hairstylists and all of a sudden, POW!! An emotional mole pops out of the Mr. B-shaped hole and knocks me on my ass.

Pretty soon I'll have to go back to work and such, but right now all I want to do is sit here and stare into space and drink Diet Coke and occasionally eat toast. As long as I'm in my little Cone of Silence, removed from Real Life, the emo-moles stay pretty quiet.

I have made some small progress, though: I no longer feel compelled to hold the box of his ashes on my lap all day. Seriously, I did that the first few days after I picked it up and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. I do still talk to it sometimes, but don't tell anyone, OK?
 

After the bomb

(I just went back and checked -- Mr. B died just 20 minutes after I posted my previous post.)

Mr. B and I both are (were?) avid fans of science fiction/fantasy books. He tended more toward space opera things with lots on interesting world-building and aliens and ships and adventures where lots of stuff happened. I liked those if they were cleverly written (I'm looking at you, Lois McMaster Bujold) but my favorites are typically stories set in our world, or not-quite our world, with richly-drawn characters and relationships. But my most favorites are post-apocalyptic "after the bomb" books, as we used to call them way back in Cold War times. Stephen Kings' The Stand, for example, or even the Left Behind books which are fascinating when read from a sci-fi perspective.

Anyhooze, that's where I am right now: A post-apocalyptic, bombed out world where the survivors have to scrabble and scramble to survive. Something catastrophic happened and the whole world changed in an instant. It was just a week ago we returned from our three-day cancer retreat (now that sounds like a fun time, doesn't it?) and met with hospice.

Yesterday was a flurry of activity which made it super-easy to stay in left-brain mode. The Ex went with me to the funeral home which was easy-peasy, really, since Mr. B and I tend toward the minimalist in that regard. Sister flew in to stay with me, and Evil Twin was finalizing preps to come, too. The 'durable medical supply' place came to take back the, ahem, 'day bed', etc. There were phone calls and emails and Facebook communications to take care of. I was running on four hours of sleep, and I was grateful for the buzz of exhaustion.

But last night after Sister went to bed and I was shutting down the house for the night, I looked over my shoulder into the now-empty dining room where Mr. B had lain a scant twenty-four hours ago, where Pal Peg and I helped him finish up the hard work of dying and letting go.

The hard candy shell of uber-competent and strong caregiver/problem solver I had constructed around my gooey soft inner core cracked wide open and everything started to leak out. I sat in the middle of the empty floor and wept. That's the first time I felt the Mr. B-shaped hole in me.

It was the first time since his diagnosis a scant three months ago (THREE FUCKING MONTHS!!) that I simply sat and cried to the point where I couldn't stop myself.

I know full well that as the hubbub fades and I have to reconstruct a daily life from the rubble, that Mr. B-shaped hole is only going to get larger and larger.

The world is now Mr. B-less, and that's just so wrong, on every level. Wow. It looks like my tag "Strange New World" has just taken on a whole new meaning, hasn't it?

Fuck.
 

Quick update

Things have gone so fast... he's unconscious now and has been most of today. It looks like he may be gone tonight, maybe tomorrow. My Pal Peg is with me and we're standing watch, or vigil, or whatever.

Thanks for all your kind wishes. It's surreal but peaceful, and that's all I was hoping for.
 

Time flies...

Did you know a lot can happen in a week?

A week ago, Mr. B was walking (albeit unsteadily) and conversing, and hugging, and eating (albeit not a lot). I was working full-time and he was able to stay home alone.

Today, he is doing none of the above.

He can still stagger from the 'day bed' in our former dining room around the corner to the bathroom, or over to the recliner, but that's about it. He's no longer interested in even a few sips of smoothie or milkshake -- his only sustenance for the past week -- but he has had a few sips of chai tea with soy this morning. I have gone in to work for a few hours here and there this past week but as it stands now I won't be going in much, if at all.

I had kind of envisioned that this final phase of life would be full of heartwarming, intimate moments of connection, saying things to each other that would stay with us always, and stuff like that.

That's not quite the way things seem to be working out.

He's gone almost completely internal at this point, and any stimulation that comes from outside (including me) seems to be a distraction from whatever he is doing inside to get ready. As he retreats further inward, the slight-yet-always-present undercurrent of stubbornness I've always felt running through him is coming closer to the surface.

This morning he wanted to move from the day bed to the recliner. I cleared a path through the living room and pulled out the walker hospice sent over. When it was time, he insisted on going through the kitchen around to the recliner, through the one doorway in the house too narrow for the walker to fit.

Guess he told me, huh?

I ask him what he wants or needs, or try to tell him about what's going on with the day, and he gets restless and whispers he feels he's being "talked at". But when I say "I love you," he always replies "Love you, too." I'll take that.

Everyone tells me I'm doing a good job and that does help, but I still feel like I'm not giving him what he needs. Then again, maybe whatever he needs, it's not mine to give.

There's a booklet hospice gave us called "Journey's End: A Guide to Understanding the Final Stages of the Dying Process." I finally managed to make myself read it the other night, and I'm glad I did. It left me with a much more, well, sacred image of what he is working through right now. I actually feel I've been entrusted with the task of getting him through this as peacefully as I can.

Have I mentioned that this is The Hardest Thing I've ever had to do in my whole life?

So here's the thing...

Things have not been going well around here. I suppose it's time to stop vagueblogging and catch you all up.

Long story way short, Mr. B has been losing serious ground for the past month, and since he only sees the oncologist (way over in The Big City) every three weeks, we haven't known if the chronic problems (nausea, fatigue, cognitive changes, etc.) were side effects from chemo/radiation or... whatever.

Yesterday was his follow-up appointment, three weeks post-chemo. I headed in there determined to get my questions answered. I should have realized I was setting myself up for a classic case of "Be careful what you ask for."

The doc asked Mr. B some questions and poked and prodded. Took some notes. She did not offer a prognosis. She did not mention any further treatment. As she was making moves to wrap up the visit, I asked for the prognosis, and she told us.

One month, maybe two.

She said "It's* a bad disease, and you've got a bad case of it."

So it's time to call hospice. No advantage at this point to trekking all the way over to The Big City, so it's time to find an oncologist close to home to babysit us. And we absolutely have to get those freaking papers finished up, the POAs and Advance Directives and all that.

(Safety Tip: PLEASE get all that living will shit done now. Having to have those discussions once someone is really ill is THE WORST. Much easier to do when it's all theoretical.)

I asked the doc how the disease typically progresses at this point, and she gave us a few scenarios. I asked what we are to do in any of those cases, because my instinct would be to call 911, and she indicated that not dialing 911 is the right thing to do.

Yikes.

But that's the beauty of getting hooked up with hospice: We call them instead and they can help us through.

Through my superior people-reading skills (snort!), over the past few months I had gathered that, despite what she was saying, she wasn't being real aggressive about offering treatment. I am irritated that she wasn't more forthcoming at our last visit. Or the one before that. However, from what she said yesterday, most people don't want to know so she doesn't volunteer that information.

Really? How could someone not want to know? I don't get that at all.

Anyway, there it is. I suppose our goal at this point is to celebrate our first anniversary in November.

In the meantime, we get to figure out how this is all going to work.

* Stage 4 melanoma, in case I've been too vague about it. Yes, he went from getting the all clear in June 2008 and July 2009 to Stage 4 this past June without passing go or collecting $200. WTF is up with that?
 

WTF just happened here?!?

O Hai, kids! Sorry I've been absent, but things got a little wacky around here last week. Good news is that I have a new game to play:

How much can I vent without violating Someone's privacy and/or hurting Someone's feelings?

This should be fun!

So... last week I ended up having to play adult and it sucked. I had to nut up and decide how to take care of Someone (who does not live with me) who was VERY VERY ill. Got the shit scared out of me in the process when I realized I had NO IDEA what the hell I was doing but other people assumed I did.

Man, talk about humbling.

It took a lot of fumbling and bumbling (with several hours of laying awake in the dark staring at the ceiling) but I think we finally got things set up where I won't have to do that again any time soon. And I must've done something right, 'cause Someone has recovered to the point where Someone is pissed at me for being too bossy. According to Mr. B's English-to-B-Family dictionary, that most likely translates to a hearty "Thanks, and good job!"

In other news, Young Son is just about to turn 11 this week. He's maturing fast (and breaking his mother's heart in the process) and has been toying with the notion of jobs he could have as a teenager. He's decided he could work at the day care he's gone to for the past six years, or at a restaurant, but he insists it would have to be a family-owned restaurant, not a chain. Apparently that's important.

The other day I got a txt msg from The Ex:

Quote of the day from YS while watching the septic guy clean the tank: "That's not such a bad job. I think I'll do it when I grow up. For two years."

Sure, it's not exactly a mother's dream, but at least he'd have a steady paycheck. And after watching my follow-her-dreams actor-child's painful struggle toward her goals, I'd take a steady paycheck even if it did come with a certain... je ne sais quoi.
 

Normal, new & improved!

I thought Mr. B's diagnosis was rough enough, but his sister, who moved to town last year, also just got a Very Bad Diagnosis. So, as Mr. B and I deal with his stuff, we are also trying to help Sis as much as we possibly can.

Stress, much? Let's just say it's a full life.

I'm alternating between Control Freak Mode (working myself into a lather trying to anticipate and solve every single possible upcoming problem) and Withdrawal Mode (curling up in a ball in the corner, paralyzed by the conviction that nothing good will ever happen again). I'm hoping there's a happy medium in there somewhere. Happy, hell; I'd even settle for a tolerable medium. I don't think there's enough diet soda in the county to help me reach a happy medium.

But, as with any major crisis, the initial wave of shock and awe passes. The survivors scrape up whatever's left and start piecing things back together into some semblance of normal, trying to figure out what 'normal' now looks like. We have kind of settled into what passes for normal these days. Even though we know more THINGS are going to happen at some point, we can't do dick about it right now. Except wait.

So wait, we will.

In the meantime, we're scraping together what we can, going to work, and trying to get stuff done. What else can we do?
 

Peeking over the edge

Have you ever had one of those moments when you realize that whatever is about to happen in the next few minutes or hours could change your life forever?

Sure, with the luxury of hindsight, we can look back and recognize all sorts of decisions that changed the course of our lives -- like the moment I decided to send Mr. B that first email -- but at the time we didn't have a clue that anything out of the ordinary was going on.

But those stomach-wrenching moments when you are well aware you are walking up to the edge of a cliff with no idea what will happen when you take that step over the edge... those are a whole 'nother thing. Like, say, the morning of your wedding. Or when you feel the first pang of labor. Or even when you pick up the stick you peed on ten minutes earlier and slowly turn it over.

Anxious, much?

In half an hour, I am going to leave work to catch a ferry to catch a cab to the Highly Regarded Cancer Treatment Center where Mr. B and I will be told what in the hell is going on.

After that, who knows?
 

At least I'm enjoying the ride

Wow - what a WEEK I'm having! It's been rough, but yesterday the sun finally came out and the temps approached 70 degrees. That made me happy. I also realized that it was about a year ago that Mr. B and I set our wedding date. That made me happy too.

Despite that happy occasion, Mr. B said the other day that June is shaping up to be his least favorite month. I pondered that, trying to place his surgeries, etc. in order, but my memory is crap. I had to go through the blog archives to remind myself what happened when. I then created this handy info-graphic to put it all in perspective. Sure enough, June has been in the bottom of the curve for the three years running.
 

LEGEND:

A: We're dating! Yay!

B: The dermatologist found what?!? OMG! But it's OK, just got to cut it off. Oops, missed a spot -- there. All better.

C: We're moving in together! wOOt!

D: What's that thing on your head? Shit, here we go again. It's still OK, though - just gotta make another scalp donation. All better.

E: We're married! Yay!

F: Ruh-roh...

Seeing it all laid out like that really drove home what a freakin' roller coaster ride the last three years have been, and I'm not even going to count my own little health hassles.

Here's some food for thought: A few months ago Blogger stopped FTP support for self-hosted blogs so I moved my family blog back to Blogger. I had started it since way back in 2004, right before the 25th anniversary of my first marriage. Lots of ancient history there.

I figured since I was now newly-remarried and all, it was a good time to do some housecleaning. I changed the blog name and the tagline, and even chose a new template. I wrote the tagline without even thinking, just as a placeholder, really. But looking at it now I think The Universe was trying to tell me something:

"It's all fun and games until it isn't. And even then, it tends to be fairly interesting."

Heh. Interesting. Yeah, that fits.

Interesting or not, I keep staring at that graph, hoping the pattern continues and we see the red line swing sharply upward in a few months.

Fingers crossed, 'k?
 

Attitude of gratitude

In honor of Mr. B's upcoming birthday, here's a top ten list of why he's the best.

• His birthday is not on my ex-anniversary. It's the day before, which eliminates all sorts of emotional awkwardness for me.


• Our taste in reading material is eerily similar -- a huge cost-saving measure.


• He can change the lightbulbs in most of the ceiling fixtures without a ladder.


• His family of origin is about as close as mine. Let's just say we enjoy minimal in-law follies.


• His follow-through percentage is just a tad lower than mine, allowing me to act all high and mighty like I'm the conscientious one.


• He doesn't mind loading and unloading the dishwasher.


• He'll eat my mostly-vegetarian cooking without complaining.


• He can handle a drain snake like nobody's business.


• He's a lot handier than he thinks he is.


• He always knows the answer.

OK, the last one is a cheat, an inside joke from decades past. But I have anecdotal evidence that it's true. More on that later.

In other news, I know my posting has been less than... regular lately. I've decided I must embrace my seasonal shortcomings and have declared February to be Let Myself Off The Hook Month. I hereby vow I will shower, dress, make sure the family is fed, pay the bills, and show up at work during February, but everything else is iffy. I expect to rejoin society in about a month.

Anyone else struggle in February, or is it just me?