So I went back to work yesterday and all that stress I’d been *missing* came flooding back. I feel like a ticking time bomb. I had another windscreen washer moment today when one of my bosses had a crack at me for not going to a meeting that had been rescheduled to today, when I had another commitment. I lost it. The proverbial dam burst and there were tears everywhere (damn! – pun intended). Ugh. Part of me wants to take more time off, and part of me just feels like a failure.
Is this something I’ll miss if my mother lives with me? Possibly. I mean, I’ll miss the freedom I feel to just burst into tears at any old time in any old place. Reality is I need my space. I decided last week that if I knew my mother wouldn’t live for very long then I wouldn’t hesitate to live with her – for all her faults, I love her – but if we’re talking 10, 15 or 20 years, then, umm, we kinda need to have a different conversation. So I speak to my GP, who I have a really good relationship with, and I speak to her oncologist.
The long of the short of it or the short of the long of it is that it seems she really doesn’t have that long. May be two years at most. At most. Ugh. Even though the primary cancer has been removed, she has a couple of mets to deal with, meaning one, more likely two, more rounds of surgery and another six months of chemo, but apparently she’s discussed not having more treatment with her oncologist, which means she has up to two years. Up to. At most. Absolute maximum.
To say I was shocked at this news is an understatement. Shocked because every discussion I’ve been involved in has involved treatment and cure, not no treatment and no cure. Also shocked that I may only have her for such a short time – and yet there’s all these things she needs to teach me, like how to cook pancakes, how to sew a button on, and how to remove stains from things! 😉
And so I don’t exactly say yes to the living arrangements, but I don’t exactly say no, either. How can I say no? Like many of you, the WT says I can but I “won’t” or “don’t want to”. Yep, I guess she’s right. I don’t want to say no to a dying woman, even if I don’t quite want to live with her, either, although part of me does so I can spend time with her and take care of her.
And now to top it all off there are two new lumps in her armpit. They could be anything, I realise that, but of course, given the circumstances, well… you know what I’m thinking.
So now I’m exploring the possibility of renovating my place so there’s more room – at least two “living” areas where we can do our own thing. I’m not sure it will work, but it’s worth looking at, and for me is a better option than moving. Certainly cheaper, and this way I get to keep (may be even improve) my lovely little house.
I don’t know, it still doesn’t feel right, but it is what it is. If she decides to have the treatment then she’ll probably stay with me for six months or more anyway (her treatment being in the city and her home being in the country)… may be this is a better way to do the six months? I don’t know. It’s all messy and swirly in my head. If she’s moving in, I want to make it comfortable (for me) sooner rather than later; and if she’s not, well… I’m not sure how to deal with the temporariness of the current arrangement anyway. It feels like a no win situation. Sigh.