Not such a Motherfucking Beautiful Day

Today has been one of the worst, fucked up, rotten days in a long motherfucking time. It's now 9.45pm ... two hours and fifteen more minutes of it left. You are going DOWN, motherfucker.

Let me just backtrack .... the last few days I have been feeling really crap. I was on a high when Mr TC was away - I was free from the black, energy-sucking cancer aura. Usually I miss him when he is away, but no, not this time. I needed a break. I did so much when he was gone, just accomplished a lot of crap that has been building up for, oh, four and a half months.

Last Friday I was looking at my blog stats ... a lot of people find their way to my blog by googling bowel gas (heh), and bad nuchal, and missing ovary. (Mine went MIA for a while but was eventually found). I notice that a lot of the time, people come here, then go clicking through May's posts. May was when we found out about Mr TC, and when the baby came. So, it was a pretty fucking busy month, no?

I don't mind that people do that at all .... I decided to have a go myself. So, there I went, back into my late-pregnancy days, all bitching and moaning. And I knew what was coming. I wanted to travel through time, whisper into my own ear some gentle words of warning. "Brace yourself, sweetheart! We're in for a big one!" Then BANG, tumours. POW. Baby. BIFF. Chemo. The onslaught. Us AAs have a saying for this .... it is called "life on lifes' terms". Well don't I win the fucking prize for that one.

Of course, rehashing it all made me quite upset. And shocked. I think I'm in a bit of denial around it all, maybe. But, I re-read all the comments from that time also, and the shock from people was just so great. And the total compassionate outpouring of love from people I have never met in the flesh. And it all just kind of hit me, and I haven't felt the same since I read it all.

Then Mr TC comes back, and we are back doing time again. And we had a big argument. I'm an arsehole. He's a control freak. Usually I can laugh about it and stand up and mime out an air traffic controller trying to land a plane, to remind him that he's doing it. But it wasn't funny. I'm busting my gut here. He's been off in Queensland dealing with his other children, while our children here don't really even notice that he's away because he does nothing for them anyway.

Oh my God life is so hard these days. I did not sign up for this bullshit.

Anyway, cut a long story short (too late!) ...... my day started at 4am this morning, with Mr TC calling out to me from the upstairs toilet. He must have called my name 20 times. Suddenly I realised and sat straight up in bed, my heart sinking and the terror forming all over again. I don't think I can adequately describe the horror, of hearing your formerly tough, strong, macho, proud husband ... feebly calling your name in the middle of the night like that. It was the same as the night that we first found out about his tumours, I had to take him into the toilet and help him back to bed. I was nine fucking months pregnant - do you know how hard it is to squat on the toilet floor when your belly is so big you can hardly breathe? And your baby kicks to remind you that he's there, because you know, you forgot? And you don't really care?!

This morning, I ran upstairs to Mr TC. He was on the toilet, shaking, clammy, heavy breathing. He gets worked up into such a state, that I think just my presence calms him down. I literally had to hold his head up. He told me later that he really thought he was going to die. (Of course, no ambulance or doctor for him. Pfft. Ambulances are for pussies, apparently.) I laid down next to him in his bed, he kept apologising, I kept reassuring him it was cool, I was cool. I was feeling like such an arsehole because of the big fights we'd just had hours before.

I laid there for an hour with him, holding him, listening to him breathe. Then Monkey woke for a feed so I came downstairs.

__

If you saw Mr TC in the street, you would know he is a cancer patient. It's gotten all just really fucked up now. His body must be so, so toxic. The poor thing. I do love him . It's just so hard. Watching the decline. There are two more chemos left, the thought of which makes me sick. One is this Friday, and then the last one has been moved to the 30th of this month. I can't wait until it stops, and he can come good again. He'll come good again.

So, Mr TC walks in tonight after the meeting, and tells me the news that his son will be coming back to live with us next week. I kind of knew it would happen. It's just, I seem to have no control over my life. Everything is just happening and I can't stop it. If things turn to shit with my stepson, then I will not fight it, I really will leave. The thought of him staying up late every night makes me truly feel ill. For some reason, I need everyone in bed before I go to bed. I LOVE my stepson. So much! I'm just - stressed.

I sat there, watching the rest of Nims Island, waiting until Tiger was in bed before my mental breakdown. Whaddya know ... at the end of the film, what song gets played but a U2 song. And not just ANY U2 song ...... Beautiful Day. The tears flooded, hot with rage. No, Bono, it's not. It is very far from a fucking Beautiful Day.

Blah. Ran out of steam. End of my tether, give it all up and let it all go.

I don't understand anything.