Little things are getting to me lately. I don't know why- because they will still go on after I'm gone. I catch myself being more sensitive about comments than I used to be. For instance- I told my Dad about wanting to take the girls for a little vacation this summer even though we really shouldn't financially do it. My Dad's response was "Well, Vera won't even remember the trip." I know what he meant. We'd had this conversation before about affording a trip to Disney, but going when Vera was 4 or 5 because it kinda seemed that the 'Magic' would be lost on her.
"But I will." I told him. I know he felt like a turd after that. It wasn't my intention to make him feel bad but I just left it there.
A friend recently made an observation "That Doctor's appointment really messed with your head didn't it?"
Uh, yea. I guess you could say that. When all signs point to 'You have a year to live- good luck making your memory last for your two young children' it tends to stick in your brain... EVERY. WAKING. MOMENT.
It has rocked me to the core. How the f@#k could it NOT? I look in the mirror every morning wondering what I can do today that will save me?
My husband is in some kind of denial I think. He reads... A LOT. Always has. But has he done one friggin' ounce of research on what I've got? Nope. So when I talk to him about procedures or whatever else- I have to sit down and E.X.P.L.A.I.N. it to him. Maybe it's too much to ask. Maybe his books are his escape. But COME ON!! What does he know? Less than YOU READING THIS. If he was sick, I'd probably know more about his diagnosis than he did.
I don't know what the hell I want other than time. I want to freeze it. I wish Vera would sleep all cuddled up with me. I wish Iris wouldn't fight with me. I wish I'd had the girls 8 years ago so I'd have had more time with them. So they might remember their mommy. I don't WANT to write letters for them to open on special days. I WANT TO BE THERE. I bought a bunch of stationery with envelopes but I don't want to do it. I just look at those boxes. And that damned journal that I 'should' be keeping.
I don't even know how to scream loud enough.