The Moving Target Sucks

Yes, this is a Cancer Post™.

With more than one F Bomb.

So Laston, as you all know, spent a few days in the hospital a week ago.

This was not fun.

But it's not so much the time in the hospital, or the crappy way he feels, or even the looming spectre of cancer that's pissing me off tonight.

It's the fact that it fucks with everything in life.

That I didn't even mention here in this blog that Abby got As and Bs (and one just-barely C+) on her report card, or that Lizzy got terrific grades too. I never even mentioned these things, because the Fucking Cancer distracted me from celebrating them properly.

It's that I don't have the luxury of working a few of those overtime hours offered, because I need to be home, and that Laston's entire income is at the whim of someone else (the SSA, who, although faster than expected, have still not managed to send us the paper check for three months back "child support" for Abby and Lizzy).

That every time we get a fucking treatment that works, Laston's body tells it to fuck off after a few months and we have to start over. The one that landed him in the hospital last week reoccurred (to a much lesser extent, thank Google) yesterday. It's been determined that he has developed what amounts to an allergy to a chemo drug called alaxoplatinum (I think).

I miss predictable schedules (oh, and that's changing at work too, though that has nothing to do with the cancer). I miss being able to take Abby up to her dad's at the same time on all his weekends with her. I miss the ability to plan meals ahead, rather than feeding Laston whatever he can choke down.

It's not all bad, of course.

I can still play video games while Laston watches and does strategy research for me (Final Fantasy XIII now). I can still watch our evening TV with Abby after Lizzy goes to bed (we're halfway through Stargate Atlantis and 4/5ths of the way through Stargate SG-1). I can still read Lizzy her nighttime books (we're on Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and oh boy is Lizzy pissed off at Dolores Umbridge!). We can even have Family Movie night.

But I can't predict when any of this will go by the wayside because of a medical emergency.

And that drives me batshit crazy.

Possibly I'm a control freak. Although, when I was in marriage counseling with my first husband, the counselor told me I didn't need to have control; I just needed to know someone was in control.

And between our lives and the craptastic world of stupid bathroom laws and shootings of all kinds and rapists getting away with it, I'm just too damn tired to deal.

So if I'm snappish or unkind, or I seem obtuse or uninterested in what you're trying to show me, please don't take it personally.

I have more than enough on my plate.