Ok, so Mr TC is flying to Queensland tomorrow to watch his son play soccer. Stepson is an amazing player, and is in the trials to possibly get picked for Australias Under 17's. He will be flying back to his mum and sister. I'm too tired and overwhelmed to go, and truthfully - I need a break from Mr TC. Cancer is a full-time job, and it's killing me. (HA).
I've spent all afternoon adjusting, scanning, and collating a shitload of photographs, spanning the last eight years. I've made an album for stepson, and an album for stepdaughter. (I'm REALLY going to have to think of some better names.) I'm an avid photo taker - there are so many happy, smiling, amazing memories. They are very alike, Mr TC and his daughter. The same looks, same laid-back attitude, same quirkiness.
Finally, after a hectic afternoon of photos, writing quotes for Mr TC, minding Monkey .... I bolted up the street at 4.30pm to get all the pics printed. Only to be turned away again, and again. Three photo places I went to, all said they couldn't do it because they are closing soon.
I had one more to go to, ran up the hill panting with Monkey in the sling, and Tiger running after me, starting to get worried himself the poor sweetheart.
"Mum ... ummmmm, what are you going to do if they say no too?"
"Well my love, I might cry. But hopefully they will print them."
I went in and asked the lady, she said sorry, but she didn't think they had time. Tiger was browsing off in the store, so I leaned over to her and spoke quietly.
"Look, this is so important to me, and I would really appreciate it if you could do this. My husband has cancer. He's flying out to Queensland to see his son play soccer tomorrow, between his chemo treatments. I've spent the day copying all of these pics to get them printed off, to remind both of my stepkids what an amazing father they have. I need my stepdaughter to know that she has a place in our family and her dad will get better and hopefully be able to see her soon."
Without a word, she patted my back, closed her shop and printed every last one. They look magnificent.
________
And as for the APB follow-up? Oh my God. Oh my GOD. I am printing all of the comments out now .... EIGHT pages worth. Just - unbelievable. I'm going to give them to him in an envelope to take with him tomorrow, with instructions to read them when he is in his motel room alone. He will just be so blown away. Blown, I tell you.
It may take me a few days, but I'm going to thank all of you personally. He won't know what hit him - POW, an avalanche of love, and support, and humour and sageness. How much do women rock? You all ROCK the whole FUCKING HOUSE DOWN. Goddamit I want to have a fuck-off cancer party, and invite every single one of you. I'm going to pay this forward so much .... thank you doesn't even cut it. BUT THANK YOU!!!! xoxoxoxoxxoxooxo
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Monday, 29 September 2008
Putting Out an APB
"... you gotta cry without weeping,
Talk without speaking ..
Scream without raising your voice.
You know I took the poison,
From the poison stream and I floated
.. outta here.""
- Running to Stand Still, U2
So fucking melancholy and weepy lately. I keep turning around, because it feels like someone is behind me. I'm either being haunted - by one of my dads, or my nan ... or it's the long-lost monkey on my back come to say hello. Incessant dreams. I've stepped up my meetings, and will most likely even reach out *gasp!* to an older woman in recovery I know, see if she can help me do some step work. I need to shift some of this bullshit - take some rocks out of my backpack. My whole neck and upper back has seized, most likely from carrying the whole weight of the world on my shoulders. A good friend of mine busted this week, which has really shaken me up. Both her and her husband had almost nine years clean time up - I can't believe it. They have four children, and I just know that it's going to end badly. So sad - but makes me realise I am not immune. And fuck knows, the past 4+ months have reminded me of why I used to use drugs .... takes away all the pain. (Also takes away everything else, too ... unfortunately).
My shining light this week has been finding a new version of "Running to Stand Still" on iTunes. It is my favourite U2 song of all time - big call, I know. Bono wrote it about a girl he knew in Dublin who was a heroin addict. I want it played at my funeral. Specifically, in the middle of my funeral, after the eulogy. Very, very loud. In its entirety. Does anyone else plan the songs of their funeral, or am I the only freak?
Today I did a load of washing, but had no desire to hang it out, so it's still in the washing machine. Lethargic, useless, stranded, and a bit fucked up.
Blah blah fucking fucking cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer chemo chemo chemo chemo.
Some photos might save this post ......
It's Mr TCs new favourite thing, to carry Monkey around the lake in his sling. See that hat he's got on? It's MINE. But, he loses his hair, and asked if he could "borrow" it. I mean really, all with the excuses to wear my headwear. We got another one - so now we both wear matching hats. Which is very Keith and Nicole of us, I know. But hey - she copied off me, by having a baby with red hair.
Oh, and as for Monkey? Yeah, nothing much to report, except he's ON SOLIDS. Yes. yes he is. He is SUCH big baby, I'm getting him weighed tomorrow. I have been putting it off. Why?
Because the FUCKING midwife always asks "HOW'S MR TC????" In front of a room full of people. So, I have no idea what my baby weighs. None. Anyone got a good comeback for the midwife? I'm so tired of dumb people. Someone asked me about Mr TC yesterday .... I very nearly told them he was dead. Just to fuck with their puny, miniscule brains. (I wonder if my bitterness will go away, after the Fiasco fades??) Ahem - anyway, look, a cute baby eating ...
He has eaten pumpkin, rice cereal, lentils, and vegetables. The very first thing he tried was mashed banana - very fitting, considering his blog nick-name. He LOVES his food. It's such a relief, I was so pissed off that he was only getting his food from a can. (Formula). Tiger keeps wanting to eat it too ..
My most beautiful, amazing peeps. My bloggies. You myriad of wonderful, amazing women, from all over the world. I need you! I have a favour to ask you - all of you.
Mr TC has really, really had enough. Not seeing his daughter recently has been the final straw - he is so depressed, and downhearted. Every morning he wakes up defeated, talks of leaving, moving, selling, fucking off to anywhere but here. The chemo has almost crushed him. It won't, but in his words he's really "Doin' it tough, hon."
I'm doing everything I can. It doesn't feel like enough.
I was wondering if you could leave him a comment? A message of love and hope, directly to him? I will print them off and give them to him to read ... I know he will appreciate it. He'll probably get all big-headed and annoying, but I'm willing to cop that. He needs a bit of a lift, and my back is so sore from holding us both up lately.
XOXOXOXOXOXOX
(Oh, one more thing ... this week, I shall devote a whole post to Sarah Palin. Oh yes. yes I will.)
Talk without speaking ..
Scream without raising your voice.
You know I took the poison,
From the poison stream and I floated
.. outta here.""
- Running to Stand Still, U2
So fucking melancholy and weepy lately. I keep turning around, because it feels like someone is behind me. I'm either being haunted - by one of my dads, or my nan ... or it's the long-lost monkey on my back come to say hello. Incessant dreams. I've stepped up my meetings, and will most likely even reach out *gasp!* to an older woman in recovery I know, see if she can help me do some step work. I need to shift some of this bullshit - take some rocks out of my backpack. My whole neck and upper back has seized, most likely from carrying the whole weight of the world on my shoulders. A good friend of mine busted this week, which has really shaken me up. Both her and her husband had almost nine years clean time up - I can't believe it. They have four children, and I just know that it's going to end badly. So sad - but makes me realise I am not immune. And fuck knows, the past 4+ months have reminded me of why I used to use drugs .... takes away all the pain. (Also takes away everything else, too ... unfortunately).
My shining light this week has been finding a new version of "Running to Stand Still" on iTunes. It is my favourite U2 song of all time - big call, I know. Bono wrote it about a girl he knew in Dublin who was a heroin addict. I want it played at my funeral. Specifically, in the middle of my funeral, after the eulogy. Very, very loud. In its entirety. Does anyone else plan the songs of their funeral, or am I the only freak?
Today I did a load of washing, but had no desire to hang it out, so it's still in the washing machine. Lethargic, useless, stranded, and a bit fucked up.
Blah blah fucking fucking cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer chemo chemo chemo chemo.
Some photos might save this post ......
It's Mr TCs new favourite thing, to carry Monkey around the lake in his sling. See that hat he's got on? It's MINE. But, he loses his hair, and asked if he could "borrow" it. I mean really, all with the excuses to wear my headwear. We got another one - so now we both wear matching hats. Which is very Keith and Nicole of us, I know. But hey - she copied off me, by having a baby with red hair.
Oh, and as for Monkey? Yeah, nothing much to report, except he's ON SOLIDS. Yes. yes he is. He is SUCH big baby, I'm getting him weighed tomorrow. I have been putting it off. Why?
Because the FUCKING midwife always asks "HOW'S MR TC????" In front of a room full of people. So, I have no idea what my baby weighs. None. Anyone got a good comeback for the midwife? I'm so tired of dumb people. Someone asked me about Mr TC yesterday .... I very nearly told them he was dead. Just to fuck with their puny, miniscule brains. (I wonder if my bitterness will go away, after the Fiasco fades??) Ahem - anyway, look, a cute baby eating ...
He has eaten pumpkin, rice cereal, lentils, and vegetables. The very first thing he tried was mashed banana - very fitting, considering his blog nick-name. He LOVES his food. It's such a relief, I was so pissed off that he was only getting his food from a can. (Formula). Tiger keeps wanting to eat it too ..
My most beautiful, amazing peeps. My bloggies. You myriad of wonderful, amazing women, from all over the world. I need you! I have a favour to ask you - all of you.
Mr TC has really, really had enough. Not seeing his daughter recently has been the final straw - he is so depressed, and downhearted. Every morning he wakes up defeated, talks of leaving, moving, selling, fucking off to anywhere but here. The chemo has almost crushed him. It won't, but in his words he's really "Doin' it tough, hon."
I'm doing everything I can. It doesn't feel like enough.
I was wondering if you could leave him a comment? A message of love and hope, directly to him? I will print them off and give them to him to read ... I know he will appreciate it. He'll probably get all big-headed and annoying, but I'm willing to cop that. He needs a bit of a lift, and my back is so sore from holding us both up lately.
XOXOXOXOXOXOX
(Oh, one more thing ... this week, I shall devote a whole post to Sarah Palin. Oh yes. yes I will.)
Thursday, 25 September 2008
Maybe I Am Beige Now Too
Had a hard few days. I'm putting WAY too much pressure on myself lately, to work from home and mind Monkey. It's getting harder, too, as he gets older. I end up getting nothing done. I half mind the baby, half work, and half go crazy. I'm swimming through mud.
Mr TC and I take it in turns to get all morose. It's been his turn this week, my God he looks so pale and awful, depressed and fed up.
Buoyed from the fucking incredibly insightful comments on my last post, I rang Sandi (that silly masseuse!) to tell her that I won't be using the voucher, maybe she could offer my friends their money back. She was quite cold, I was quite weepy from calling my favourite auntie to tell her she can't come up and visit me tomorrow. (I blamed Mr TC, but the reality is I just don't want to see anyone. Ummm, anxious, much?) Anyway, I told Sandi exactly why I got so upset. She denied it, which made me turn into a kid again and doubt my whole reality. It was weird ... having this nitpicking conversation with a massage therapist about the state of my husbands tumours. I mean, seriously. I softened my tone, and brought it back to my reality on a daily basis of people putting in their two-cents worth. I just wish she could have owned her stuff, instead of flitting around. She said I "misunderstood" what she was saying .... she also said she hardly slept all weekend because she felt so bad. I believed that bit, for she is a mainly nice person. Just fucking dumb. She kept telling me what the internet told her ... finally I said "Sandi! Do you think you are telling me things I don't know?? This is our life! We have been living this every day for five months!"
She shut up. And offered me a limitless supply of massages, which I shall never redeem. Because she's a liar liar pants on fire sitting on the telegraph wire.
___
Recently, I received an email out of the blue, from someone I had never heard of. She said her name was Kate, and that she had been reading my blog for a while. She told me all the wonderful stuff, (how cool I am, naughty cancer, I rock, etc) ... and asked for my address, because she lived near the HERSHEY FACTORY in AMERICA ... and had a crazy idea that some chocolate might make me feel better. Now. My dilemma ..... on one hand, she could be some 47 year old, obese, psychopathic guy living in Sydney with a penchant for redheads, OR, she could be the real deal. My brain was chanting "HERSHEYS. HERSHEYS. HERSHEYS."
She. Sent. Emergency. Supplies. OMFG.
And, when I wear my "Go Away" t-shirt so much it needs a wash .... (and I SO will. I have B.O. issues - ask my sisters. It's like, I have man glands or something. I actually have to throw t-shirts away after a while, because they just stink so bad. Or, I have to soak them in disinfectant. Good grief, is NOTHING sacred with me? No?) ...
I can swap it for this one ...
Thank you, oh Kate from It Is Tuesday, Right? For the hats and the Monkey rattle too. Totally was a bright ray of sunshine, in our otherwise fucked week. I have been on the recieving end of quite a few goodies in the mail, I am so lucky and blessed. You American chicks are so freaking generous. I think I'm an American at heart, I have always felt like I could live in Tucson. I don't even know where the fuck that is!
The hilarious thing? Mr TC thinks all the parcels recently have been from the same person. I pressed him on it.
Me: "Who? Who do you think the parcels are from?"
Mr TC: "Ohh, you know hon. That woman from your email support group."
He does not understand the concept of blogging. That's ok.
Mr TC and I take it in turns to get all morose. It's been his turn this week, my God he looks so pale and awful, depressed and fed up.
Buoyed from the fucking incredibly insightful comments on my last post, I rang Sandi (that silly masseuse!) to tell her that I won't be using the voucher, maybe she could offer my friends their money back. She was quite cold, I was quite weepy from calling my favourite auntie to tell her she can't come up and visit me tomorrow. (I blamed Mr TC, but the reality is I just don't want to see anyone. Ummm, anxious, much?) Anyway, I told Sandi exactly why I got so upset. She denied it, which made me turn into a kid again and doubt my whole reality. It was weird ... having this nitpicking conversation with a massage therapist about the state of my husbands tumours. I mean, seriously. I softened my tone, and brought it back to my reality on a daily basis of people putting in their two-cents worth. I just wish she could have owned her stuff, instead of flitting around. She said I "misunderstood" what she was saying .... she also said she hardly slept all weekend because she felt so bad. I believed that bit, for she is a mainly nice person. Just fucking dumb. She kept telling me what the internet told her ... finally I said "Sandi! Do you think you are telling me things I don't know?? This is our life! We have been living this every day for five months!"
She shut up. And offered me a limitless supply of massages, which I shall never redeem. Because she's a liar liar pants on fire sitting on the telegraph wire.
___
Recently, I received an email out of the blue, from someone I had never heard of. She said her name was Kate, and that she had been reading my blog for a while. She told me all the wonderful stuff, (how cool I am, naughty cancer, I rock, etc) ... and asked for my address, because she lived near the HERSHEY FACTORY in AMERICA ... and had a crazy idea that some chocolate might make me feel better. Now. My dilemma ..... on one hand, she could be some 47 year old, obese, psychopathic guy living in Sydney with a penchant for redheads, OR, she could be the real deal. My brain was chanting "HERSHEYS. HERSHEYS. HERSHEYS."
She. Sent. Emergency. Supplies. OMFG.
And, when I wear my "Go Away" t-shirt so much it needs a wash .... (and I SO will. I have B.O. issues - ask my sisters. It's like, I have man glands or something. I actually have to throw t-shirts away after a while, because they just stink so bad. Or, I have to soak them in disinfectant. Good grief, is NOTHING sacred with me? No?) ...
I can swap it for this one ...
Thank you, oh Kate from It Is Tuesday, Right? For the hats and the Monkey rattle too. Totally was a bright ray of sunshine, in our otherwise fucked week. I have been on the recieving end of quite a few goodies in the mail, I am so lucky and blessed. You American chicks are so freaking generous. I think I'm an American at heart, I have always felt like I could live in Tucson. I don't even know where the fuck that is!
The hilarious thing? Mr TC thinks all the parcels recently have been from the same person. I pressed him on it.
Me: "Who? Who do you think the parcels are from?"
Mr TC: "Ohh, you know hon. That woman from your email support group."
He does not understand the concept of blogging. That's ok.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
"Wake Me Up, When September Ends."
This is the story of how, last Friday at approximately 5.10pm, I tore somebody a new arsehole.
*Ahem*
I live in a small community. Five days before my baby was born, my husband gets diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. I KNOW that is big news. I KNOW it stopped people in their tracks. I'm only just now starting to come to terms with it all myself. The trauma was fucking despicable. For those last pregnant five days, I felt OBSCENE. I wanted to hide. The news of Mr TC was starting to trickle out, and people would eye my big bulging belly, with the most horrible look on their faces. It felt like pity .... I HATE being pitied. I am nobodys victim. From the beginning, I have fielded all the questions that people would never ask Mr TC to his face. He can't believe how accosted I can get just out buying a carton of milk. It started to piss me off immediately, and I would put on a bright smile and say he was doing ok. The most annoying question, which I got a LOT, and still do ..... "Is he going to be ok?"
Ummm, let me just consult the magic crystal ball I have handy in my pocket. Let's see ...... oh, would you look at that. No. No he's NOT going to be ok. Thanks for asking!
I feel like I am already pitied in my life anyway. At parties, especially big family functions ... the fact that I don't drink is so incredulous to some people. People cock their heads to one side, and say .."Ummmmmm .... lemonade?" One of my aunties actually turned to my sister, during the bridal waltz at my wedding, and said. "Oh, so she can never drink again?" Like it was some sorrowful thing. Fuck - I am more free than most people I know. I have a peace in my life that that particular auntie can only dream of.
Anyway, so the Topcat family got dealt a most serious and heavy blow, back in May. Some people were respectful, gave me space, and didn't grill me like a fucking cheese sandwich. I had to go to a concert at Tigers school, when Monkey was 12 days old. I had him in the sling, my c-section scar was killing me, but I had to go. Because Tiger needed at least one fucking parent functioning. One husband there ended up chasing me out of the school after the concert, so insistent. How's Mr TC? What kind of cancer? Will he be ok? I told him I had to go. I am so rude to him now, whenever I see him. SO rude. How would he like, if HE was sick and some fuckwit chased his wife out of school?
That's what a lot of people seem to be missing ... empathy. And tact. And appropriateness. One woman I know saw me driving around the car park, and motioned for me to wind down my window. I did. She's like, "OH MY GOOOOOD I HEARD ABOUT MR TC! IS HE GOING TO BE OOOOOKKKKKK????" I had Tiger in the car with me. Do people think that he has no ears? How does he feel, when the clueless masses have their inappropriate outpourings in front of him? I asked him.
"Oh, I don't care mum. I know dad's going to be ok. They are just silly."
I have been open with Tiger from the start. Daddy has yucky lumps in his tummy, and needs yucky chemo to kill all the lumps. He asked me where the lumps came from, I said I didn't know. Then we were watching a show about a little girl with cancer (because cancer is EVERYWHERE, you know) ... and Tiger said: "Cancer. Is that what dad has?" And I said yes, in a very calm way. But inside, I was like "HOLY FUCK YOUR DAD HAS CANCER OH MY GOD THAT IS SO FREAKY."
It feels like people want to know "the latest gossip" when they ask me. In such a matter-of-fact way. They don't stop to think that just MAYBE, maybe just getting out of bed has been hard, let alone walking down the street with a small baby, fielding questions from idiots. I pretend I am on my phone a lot, once it actually rang when I was pretending, nearly burst my fucking ear drum.
Once I was in the grocery shop with Tiger and Monkey, I said hello to a woman that I vaguely know. She nodded back, and then, five minutes later, came RUNNING up to me. "Oh, it's YOU! I heard about Mr TC! Is he going to be ok?" I stood there, gobsmacked by her fucking rudeness, looked at Tiger, and said "Well, of course daddy is going to be ok, isn't he?" Then looked pointedly at her. She still didn't get it, and was asking me more questions. People have their own pre-conceived ideas about cancer, and base a lot of their reactions on their own experiences. I can totally understand it freaks people out ... but, I'm always left standing there, trying to convince them to be positive, that we really think there is every chance Mr TC will beat this. The look in their eyes tells me they are thinking the worst.
I am done.
Lately, I've felt really anxious when I am out in public, scouting around, seeing if anyone's about to pounce. Anxious as fuck. Not all people are like that, of course. NONE of you internets are like that. Part of me thinks, thank GOD I had to do IVF, because I started this blog and ended up getting cancer support. And love. And empathy. You have helped me to not hate the complete human race, forevermore. How I love you all. How I feel thrilled with every single fucking comment. Even if it's just about the funny box of pink nappies. I blog a lot, I blog to get it out. To pass the time. We are all doing time in Chez Topcat. We are merely existing between chemotherapy sessions. It is awful. You have helped me, which in turn has helped my family. It's people like yourselves, who I don't mind talking about Mr TC with at all. Some women at Tigers school are so awesome .... they never ask me about Mr TC. I'm the one who brings it up, which is a refreshing change. Two of them even bought me a massage voucher, which was so lovely. I've had it for months, and finally booked it for last Friday at 5pm. Dinner was made, I reminded Mr TC 10 zillion times that I needed him home by 4.30. The house was clean, Monkey was fed. Finally, I arrived at the masseuse's house. Her name is Sandi, and Mr TC built her and her husbands house. So we know them. They are nice people.
I walked up, and she was just finishing off someone else. So I waited outside, enjoying the spring air. The other lady left, and Sandi came out. With that slapped-arse face look I know so well ....
Sandi: "How's Mr TC?"
Me: "Oh, he's really good!" (He wasn't, he was really sick that day.)
Sandi: "Is he? How many more chemos?"
Me: "Umm, two."
Sandi: "Well, I have been looking non-hodgkins info on the internet."
(A personal favourite .... when people give me their expert opinion after their 5 minute googling session. SO thoughtful of them.)
Me: Silent, starting to think, shut up now please.
Sandi: Head cocked, in a very "Do you want some lemonade" way .. "So, what kind of tumours were they?"
Me: "Aggressive."
Sandi: Winces "Ohhhhh, dear."
Me: "Actually, the aggressive kind are more responsive to the chemo than the slow-growing."
Sandi: Talking very slowly, as if to a child. "Well, Topcat, not necessarily. Some aggressive ones can actually be exacerbated by chemotherapy."
(Yes, she really did say that and no, I can't believe it either.)
I start to walk backwards, and said "Sandi, I really don't want to talk about this anymore." I felt anxious and angry and upset. She ignores me, and keeps on talking.
Now, you know how I talk a lot about how I was treated so terribly when I was a kid, how I had no voice, and could never speak up for myself? Yeah. So, I do not have that problem as an adult. As Sandi found out.
I start crying, she come close to me, all with the pity. Puppy dog eyes, yes dear, I know it must be so hard, lucky you have me to tell you how bad your husbands prognosis REALLY is. She went to hug me, I pulled away, and with a very tight, strangled voice said ...
"For fucks sake. All I wanted was a fucking massage!"
She was shocked. Probably hasn't heard the f-bomb in ten years, she is so straight. She is a nice person, but unfortunately has taken top honour in the "What NOT to say to the spouse of someone with cancer" game that I play every single day.
"Seriously! I am SO SICK of questions like this! How the fuck am I supposed to know if he is going to be ok! I DON'T FUCKING KNOW SANDI. He might die! He might go into remission! Everywhere I fucking go, it's all people want to talk about and I am SO. Fucking. Sick of it!"
She started apologising.
"Look, I know you didn't mean to upset me, but I just don't want to talk about Mr TC! If you want to know how he is, YOU call him and ask him yourself! I came here to feel better, not bloody worse! I don't want to know what you fucking googled! I just want to get through this time with some bloody dignity and respect."
At that, she started saying how much better I would feel after a massage. I told her I was in no mood for a massage, I was all churned up, and just needed a big cry. She was so freaking condescending without realising it, and told me she can "work really well with people who wanted a big cry." Ummm - she made me cry! Dipshit alert! Like, she could work her magic on the poor upset wife. What a hero.
I said no, I don't want a massage anymore, I'll ring and re-book it. She felt bad, so I told her that it's ok, I was just having a bad day.
I got in my car and started driving off. She came running out, calling my name. I looked around, saw I hadn't forgot anything, and thought fuck you. I just reversed up her drive, tears falling, wheels spinning, ignoring the fuck out of her.
I drove off, and came home. Had a nice shower, and ended up taking Tiger to see Wall-E. It's my brothers favourite movie too.
She rang and left the world's most annoying message the next day. "Oh, Topcat. Whatever it is I said that offended you I apologise."
In that moment, I thought, I am NEVER getting a massage off you, you dumb idiot. Mr TC was all "Call her back hon! She'd feel so bad!" He went and got me the phone. I said "Mate! You are NOT the boss of me! How about how I feel! I am not calling her ... and I am NEVER getting a massage from her again!"
I will see her again, and I will explain to her - nicely, why her words affected me so. The most annoying thing is the fact that my back kills! I need a fucking massage!
______
Ok, during the time it took to write this post .... Mr TC came in with the mail. Stacie from Heeere Storkey Storkey posted me a t-shirt. But, not just ANY t-shirt. Can you believe what I just opened?
The timing of that is proof that God has a sense of humour. Thank you, Stacie. From the depths of my jaded little heart. I'm going to wear it .. A LOT. When people ask me dumb questions (and they will) I shall point to it. Oh yes. Yes I truly, really will. LOVE IT.
xoxoxoxoxo
*Ahem*
I live in a small community. Five days before my baby was born, my husband gets diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. I KNOW that is big news. I KNOW it stopped people in their tracks. I'm only just now starting to come to terms with it all myself. The trauma was fucking despicable. For those last pregnant five days, I felt OBSCENE. I wanted to hide. The news of Mr TC was starting to trickle out, and people would eye my big bulging belly, with the most horrible look on their faces. It felt like pity .... I HATE being pitied. I am nobodys victim. From the beginning, I have fielded all the questions that people would never ask Mr TC to his face. He can't believe how accosted I can get just out buying a carton of milk. It started to piss me off immediately, and I would put on a bright smile and say he was doing ok. The most annoying question, which I got a LOT, and still do ..... "Is he going to be ok?"
Ummm, let me just consult the magic crystal ball I have handy in my pocket. Let's see ...... oh, would you look at that. No. No he's NOT going to be ok. Thanks for asking!
I feel like I am already pitied in my life anyway. At parties, especially big family functions ... the fact that I don't drink is so incredulous to some people. People cock their heads to one side, and say .."Ummmmmm .... lemonade?" One of my aunties actually turned to my sister, during the bridal waltz at my wedding, and said. "Oh, so she can never drink again?" Like it was some sorrowful thing. Fuck - I am more free than most people I know. I have a peace in my life that that particular auntie can only dream of.
Anyway, so the Topcat family got dealt a most serious and heavy blow, back in May. Some people were respectful, gave me space, and didn't grill me like a fucking cheese sandwich. I had to go to a concert at Tigers school, when Monkey was 12 days old. I had him in the sling, my c-section scar was killing me, but I had to go. Because Tiger needed at least one fucking parent functioning. One husband there ended up chasing me out of the school after the concert, so insistent. How's Mr TC? What kind of cancer? Will he be ok? I told him I had to go. I am so rude to him now, whenever I see him. SO rude. How would he like, if HE was sick and some fuckwit chased his wife out of school?
That's what a lot of people seem to be missing ... empathy. And tact. And appropriateness. One woman I know saw me driving around the car park, and motioned for me to wind down my window. I did. She's like, "OH MY GOOOOOD I HEARD ABOUT MR TC! IS HE GOING TO BE OOOOOKKKKKK????" I had Tiger in the car with me. Do people think that he has no ears? How does he feel, when the clueless masses have their inappropriate outpourings in front of him? I asked him.
"Oh, I don't care mum. I know dad's going to be ok. They are just silly."
I have been open with Tiger from the start. Daddy has yucky lumps in his tummy, and needs yucky chemo to kill all the lumps. He asked me where the lumps came from, I said I didn't know. Then we were watching a show about a little girl with cancer (because cancer is EVERYWHERE, you know) ... and Tiger said: "Cancer. Is that what dad has?" And I said yes, in a very calm way. But inside, I was like "HOLY FUCK YOUR DAD HAS CANCER OH MY GOD THAT IS SO FREAKY."
It feels like people want to know "the latest gossip" when they ask me. In such a matter-of-fact way. They don't stop to think that just MAYBE, maybe just getting out of bed has been hard, let alone walking down the street with a small baby, fielding questions from idiots. I pretend I am on my phone a lot, once it actually rang when I was pretending, nearly burst my fucking ear drum.
Once I was in the grocery shop with Tiger and Monkey, I said hello to a woman that I vaguely know. She nodded back, and then, five minutes later, came RUNNING up to me. "Oh, it's YOU! I heard about Mr TC! Is he going to be ok?" I stood there, gobsmacked by her fucking rudeness, looked at Tiger, and said "Well, of course daddy is going to be ok, isn't he?" Then looked pointedly at her. She still didn't get it, and was asking me more questions. People have their own pre-conceived ideas about cancer, and base a lot of their reactions on their own experiences. I can totally understand it freaks people out ... but, I'm always left standing there, trying to convince them to be positive, that we really think there is every chance Mr TC will beat this. The look in their eyes tells me they are thinking the worst.
I am done.
Lately, I've felt really anxious when I am out in public, scouting around, seeing if anyone's about to pounce. Anxious as fuck. Not all people are like that, of course. NONE of you internets are like that. Part of me thinks, thank GOD I had to do IVF, because I started this blog and ended up getting cancer support. And love. And empathy. You have helped me to not hate the complete human race, forevermore. How I love you all. How I feel thrilled with every single fucking comment. Even if it's just about the funny box of pink nappies. I blog a lot, I blog to get it out. To pass the time. We are all doing time in Chez Topcat. We are merely existing between chemotherapy sessions. It is awful. You have helped me, which in turn has helped my family. It's people like yourselves, who I don't mind talking about Mr TC with at all. Some women at Tigers school are so awesome .... they never ask me about Mr TC. I'm the one who brings it up, which is a refreshing change. Two of them even bought me a massage voucher, which was so lovely. I've had it for months, and finally booked it for last Friday at 5pm. Dinner was made, I reminded Mr TC 10 zillion times that I needed him home by 4.30. The house was clean, Monkey was fed. Finally, I arrived at the masseuse's house. Her name is Sandi, and Mr TC built her and her husbands house. So we know them. They are nice people.
I walked up, and she was just finishing off someone else. So I waited outside, enjoying the spring air. The other lady left, and Sandi came out. With that slapped-arse face look I know so well ....
Sandi: "How's Mr TC?"
Me: "Oh, he's really good!" (He wasn't, he was really sick that day.)
Sandi: "Is he? How many more chemos?"
Me: "Umm, two."
Sandi: "Well, I have been looking non-hodgkins info on the internet."
(A personal favourite .... when people give me their expert opinion after their 5 minute googling session. SO thoughtful of them.)
Me: Silent, starting to think, shut up now please.
Sandi: Head cocked, in a very "Do you want some lemonade" way .. "So, what kind of tumours were they?"
Me: "Aggressive."
Sandi: Winces "Ohhhhh, dear."
Me: "Actually, the aggressive kind are more responsive to the chemo than the slow-growing."
Sandi: Talking very slowly, as if to a child. "Well, Topcat, not necessarily. Some aggressive ones can actually be exacerbated by chemotherapy."
(Yes, she really did say that and no, I can't believe it either.)
I start to walk backwards, and said "Sandi, I really don't want to talk about this anymore." I felt anxious and angry and upset. She ignores me, and keeps on talking.
Now, you know how I talk a lot about how I was treated so terribly when I was a kid, how I had no voice, and could never speak up for myself? Yeah. So, I do not have that problem as an adult. As Sandi found out.
I start crying, she come close to me, all with the pity. Puppy dog eyes, yes dear, I know it must be so hard, lucky you have me to tell you how bad your husbands prognosis REALLY is. She went to hug me, I pulled away, and with a very tight, strangled voice said ...
"For fucks sake. All I wanted was a fucking massage!"
She was shocked. Probably hasn't heard the f-bomb in ten years, she is so straight. She is a nice person, but unfortunately has taken top honour in the "What NOT to say to the spouse of someone with cancer" game that I play every single day.
"Seriously! I am SO SICK of questions like this! How the fuck am I supposed to know if he is going to be ok! I DON'T FUCKING KNOW SANDI. He might die! He might go into remission! Everywhere I fucking go, it's all people want to talk about and I am SO. Fucking. Sick of it!"
She started apologising.
"Look, I know you didn't mean to upset me, but I just don't want to talk about Mr TC! If you want to know how he is, YOU call him and ask him yourself! I came here to feel better, not bloody worse! I don't want to know what you fucking googled! I just want to get through this time with some bloody dignity and respect."
At that, she started saying how much better I would feel after a massage. I told her I was in no mood for a massage, I was all churned up, and just needed a big cry. She was so freaking condescending without realising it, and told me she can "work really well with people who wanted a big cry." Ummm - she made me cry! Dipshit alert! Like, she could work her magic on the poor upset wife. What a hero.
I said no, I don't want a massage anymore, I'll ring and re-book it. She felt bad, so I told her that it's ok, I was just having a bad day.
I got in my car and started driving off. She came running out, calling my name. I looked around, saw I hadn't forgot anything, and thought fuck you. I just reversed up her drive, tears falling, wheels spinning, ignoring the fuck out of her.
I drove off, and came home. Had a nice shower, and ended up taking Tiger to see Wall-E. It's my brothers favourite movie too.
She rang and left the world's most annoying message the next day. "Oh, Topcat. Whatever it is I said that offended you I apologise."
In that moment, I thought, I am NEVER getting a massage off you, you dumb idiot. Mr TC was all "Call her back hon! She'd feel so bad!" He went and got me the phone. I said "Mate! You are NOT the boss of me! How about how I feel! I am not calling her ... and I am NEVER getting a massage from her again!"
I will see her again, and I will explain to her - nicely, why her words affected me so. The most annoying thing is the fact that my back kills! I need a fucking massage!
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Ok, during the time it took to write this post .... Mr TC came in with the mail. Stacie from Heeere Storkey Storkey posted me a t-shirt. But, not just ANY t-shirt. Can you believe what I just opened?
The timing of that is proof that God has a sense of humour. Thank you, Stacie. From the depths of my jaded little heart. I'm going to wear it .. A LOT. When people ask me dumb questions (and they will) I shall point to it. Oh yes. Yes I truly, really will. LOVE IT.
xoxoxoxoxo
Monday, 22 September 2008
I Heart Mr TC. (Especially his cluelessnessness).
(I don't have the mental energy to document my meltdown at the stupid person who took the CAKE when it comes inappropriateness ... it's coming soon, though. Oh my gosh it makes me cranky just thinking about it, GRRR)
Instead, I share yesterdays story.
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Mr TC was SO proud of himself.
"I bought a box of nappies, hon. We were running low."
Now, for him to even NOTICE that we needed nappies was worth quite a few brownie points. I follow his voice into the room .. to be greeted by this:
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I seriously fell over from laughing, he was immediately annoyed. "WHAT?"
"Well, mate. It was great of you to get them, really. But, last time I checked, we have a baby BOY."
Tiger walks in to the room, straight away says "Who are the girl nappies for?"
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Thanks for the Lolly Bag, Michael.
It's Mel's Show and Tell time!! Click here to see who else is standing at the head of the class, bursting with pride at showing their news!!
Today was my nephews seventh birthday party, down in Sydney. Mr TC was too sick to go ..... this weekend, he was also too sick to:
1) Come to an art gallery opening
2) Go to a family fun day
3) Go to a local annual circus equinox
4) Attend a friends birthday party
He went to to Queensland next week to watch his son play soccer. The cancer excuse is starting to wear a little thin. (I'm mostly joking). I don't want to be a single parent anymore, so I gave up on going anywhere too ... except Tomcats party. It was at a playcentre down in Sydney, and Tiger was HANGING to go. So I took him, and Mr TC minded Monkey.
My sister Tee made a pinata birthday cake ... a cake with a hard outer shell of chocolate around it, containing gold chocolate coins ...
It was a hit! (Literally)
This is what it looked like after it got attacked by a swarm of hungry boys (oh, and me. I was pulling off hunks of chocolate where I could) ..
Then I had a little jump on the jumping castle ..
And took a silly photo of me and Tee (Rex wasn't there, but I will be sure to take funny photos of us next week at her daughters birthday party. When you are the sibling of twins ... you have GOT to be fair.) ....
I ALWAYS pull that face in photos. Mr TC hates it, which makes me do it more. He calls it the Jocelyn Wildenstein face.
I didn't like the age spot under my eye, it went SO dark in my pregnancy. And Tee had a strange rash thing going on under her mouth. So we rectified the situation ....
Of coure, we kept looking at the photos of ourselves and PISSING ourselves laughing. The group of women behind us were looking at us, bunch of boring turds they were.
One kid was a no-show ... Michael. At the end of the party, Tiger went up and got his lolly bag from Tee. I was just about to say "Can I have Michaels lolly bag" .... when Tee handed it to me, without saying a word.
Inner child? Man, I'm trying to find my inner adult!
(Tomorrows post ...... one poor unsuspecting woman said too many innappropriate things about Mr TCs cancer .... AND BEARS THE BRUNT OF MY RAGE.)
Today was my nephews seventh birthday party, down in Sydney. Mr TC was too sick to go ..... this weekend, he was also too sick to:
1) Come to an art gallery opening
2) Go to a family fun day
3) Go to a local annual circus equinox
4) Attend a friends birthday party
He went to to Queensland next week to watch his son play soccer. The cancer excuse is starting to wear a little thin. (I'm mostly joking). I don't want to be a single parent anymore, so I gave up on going anywhere too ... except Tomcats party. It was at a playcentre down in Sydney, and Tiger was HANGING to go. So I took him, and Mr TC minded Monkey.
My sister Tee made a pinata birthday cake ... a cake with a hard outer shell of chocolate around it, containing gold chocolate coins ...
It was a hit! (Literally)
This is what it looked like after it got attacked by a swarm of hungry boys (oh, and me. I was pulling off hunks of chocolate where I could) ..
Then I had a little jump on the jumping castle ..
And took a silly photo of me and Tee (Rex wasn't there, but I will be sure to take funny photos of us next week at her daughters birthday party. When you are the sibling of twins ... you have GOT to be fair.) ....
I ALWAYS pull that face in photos. Mr TC hates it, which makes me do it more. He calls it the Jocelyn Wildenstein face.
I didn't like the age spot under my eye, it went SO dark in my pregnancy. And Tee had a strange rash thing going on under her mouth. So we rectified the situation ....
Of coure, we kept looking at the photos of ourselves and PISSING ourselves laughing. The group of women behind us were looking at us, bunch of boring turds they were.
One kid was a no-show ... Michael. At the end of the party, Tiger went up and got his lolly bag from Tee. I was just about to say "Can I have Michaels lolly bag" .... when Tee handed it to me, without saying a word.
Inner child? Man, I'm trying to find my inner adult!
(Tomorrows post ...... one poor unsuspecting woman said too many innappropriate things about Mr TCs cancer .... AND BEARS THE BRUNT OF MY RAGE.)
Saturday, 20 September 2008
This Day
I have loved this day. Mr TC took Monkey for a walk, and let me sleep in til 9am! He had him in the pouch, and walked all around the lake for ages. He said "He's such a good boy, hon!" I told him it was great that he's bonding with him. He said he bonded with him the moment he was born. I said you know what I mean ... and he did. (When Monkey was born Mr TC was doped up on painkillers because his tumours were hurting him so bad. He had a daypass out from the big hospital, and had to leave when Monkey was a few hours old.)
Today was HOT. The warmth, oh my God. Every cell in my body is relieved that I never, ever have to be in the winter of 2008 again. It is gone. It was the most bitter, bone achingly miserable fucking winter of my life. We bought tomato seedlings and thyme bushes and worked in the garden. Utter freaking bliss. I love doing family things.
Today, I laughed with my sister Rex on the phone, ate leftover tuna casserole for lunch, got on a secret level of Mario with Tiger (very exciting), and watched Mr TC toil in his beloved veggie patch. I took a photo of two of my favourite birds - kookaburras. They were sitting in a tree right outside our house, laughing so very hard. I always wonder what is so darn funny. Today, Monkey didn't like his tummy time, I hired a DVD "that the whole family can watch please mum!" ...... and I didn't think about cancer that much. Fuck you, cancer ... and the tumours you rode in on.
I have LOVED THIS DAY.
xoxox
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