O blog. I hardly missed you

To be completely honest, I'd mostly forgotten I even started this blog.

Not the best of times.

I'm not really into all the social media stuff. I'm on facebook mainly to keep an eye on my kids and what they post.

Yes, I'm stalking my kids.

Whatever.

Read my last post. Seems like forever ago. My mothers death. My own cancer diagnosis eighteen months later. This last two years has been a dream. Sometimes a nightmare.

I'm vowing now to start doing better. To quit using the 'talking to myself in the car method' as my therapy.

I have a book or two in me. Something like a thousand short stories. They whisper at the edge of my attention. Some times they yell. All want written down.

I keep meaning to post some of my patterns on Ravelry. Should probably write those down too.

Part of healing is wanting better. To be better. To have better. To do better.

Since nobody reads this but me, is it really any different than talking to myself?

I shall see.

Year of Living Hell

It's been more than a single year, tho.

Imagine the worst year ever, and double it.

I'm not trying to compare my life to the lives of people in disaster zones, or who have lost everything, but if somebody popped up and offered me a do-over in exchange for my soul... Yep, I'd take it.

(This coming from the atheist)

It wasn't just losing my mom, though that was the worst of it. It was the way she died, bit by bit, horrible. I wouldn't wish what happened to her on my worst enemy (if I had any) but to see a loved one suffer like that... words fail me.

I would give just about anything to be the person I was before all this happened. It's been a while, so the broken bits inside me have worn down enough that they mostly just scratch now instead of pierce, but I can look back at that other me, the before me, and she's a stranger. Time may heal, but some changes are permanent.

It was during the time from hell that I discovered some of my oldest 'friends' bad-mouthing me on facebook. To my adult children. And encouraging them to tell me off. To be fair, I had told them nothing of my mother's illness (I saved that for my friends, no quotes) but I couldn't believe how much it hurt, how deep it cut me. I cried for days.

I miss my mom. I miss the 'friends' I once called friends. I miss the person, the mom, I used to be. My kids have gotten used to seeing me cry, and that's the most horrible thing of all.

There is no way back to 'before'. The way to some sort of better 'after' is hard.

I want joy in my life again. I want to get to the milestones of life without thinking, 'Mom should be here for this' My oldest is about to graduate college, approaching life, career, marriage. My fifth born will graduate high school next year (and unless he completely screws up) he will be valedictorian. My mom, my dad, they should be there for these things.

It sucks.

Tears like rain, only salty

Well, I'm bummed.

My FIL was told several months ago that his cancer had metastisized and was terminal (terminal being medical speak for 'now, go home and die quietly'). I was afraid he wouldn't make it to Xmas, but he did.

Now though, not so good.

I'm trying to prepare my kids for the worst. They don't remember my dad, who died over a decade ago. This is the only grandfather they have ever known, and now...

This sucks.

This is the man who was loved me like his own daughter for the last twenty years. I'm not ready to let go of him just yet.

It's just hard, ya know?

I know death is a part of life. That from the moment we first draw breath, the number of those breaths is limited. Finite. And still death manages to sneak up on us sometimes, manages to catch us unawares. Unprepared.

My DH went to visit him in the hospital tonight. I'll see him tomorrow.

I hope.

Baby knits

Baby, my youngest (who is actually almost nine years old) is knitting himself a scarf. It had to be red yarn, because that is his favorite color, so he got some of this sparkly Xmas yarn out of my stash, under strict supervision of course, and sat down to knit. I cast on twenty stitches for him, and he carefully counts every few rows and announces that he still had twenty and only twenty. Yes, this has been a problem before.

Our cat sits next to him on the couch, waking up only when he shifts the yarn from underneath her. One of the times he so rudely awoke her, she meowed in his direction. My oh so adorable Baby (does anyone remember the show Dinosaurs? "I'm the Baby, gotta love me!" Yes it is deliberate on our part) says he hates when the cat talks to him like that because it makes him lose count.

Before you ask, yes he is actually pretty normal.

Except for when he was very small and had an invisible friend that lived in his finger. Truth, I swear. He called it Pidgy (from Pokemon, I believe) and boy, did that ever freak me out. Luckily, as number seven, my freakouts with this child are way minor.

Not sure how my other kids turned out so normal, tho.

Because I have so much free time

I'm sitting here, reading somebody's blog and I try to leave a comment. But first I have to sign up for an account. What the hell, I think, since I have so much time on my hands, what with a house to run, laundry to do, seven kids to chase around after, why don't I go ahead and start a blog. My seventeen-year-old has one, where all he seems to talk about is how I never notice him (never mind that I not only notice him a great deal, but also read everything he puts on his blog) so why shouldn't I also have a public forum where I can spout whatever I think, out into the great vacuum that is the web.



Nope, I got nothing.