100 years of suckitude

Or, at least that’s what it feels like.

My mother is sick.  Not just sick, but sick.  As in tired, fatigued, in a lot of pain, not eating, losing weight at a way too rapid rate (and do not even get me started on the nurse who, when told how much weight my SICK mother had lost seriously had the nerve endings to sigh and say “wow, and you’re so thin, I hate you, I wish I could lose that much weight that quickly”.  For fucking reals.  That, friends, is a whole other ranty blog post that I hope I one day have the energy to write) repeat and so on, etc. to infinity.  She’s sick.

Friends, it’s a scary place to be, when your parent is that sick.  Especially when, as is in the case with my mum, they still don’t know what is wrong with her.  The human body is a complex thing, and right now they’re still in the process of trying to figure out what is symptom, what is cause, and what is totally unrelated and just getting in the way of proper diagnosis.  So yeah, hi there, world spinning rapidly and fuckedly out of control, thanks for coming by!

I am the next of kin for my mother.  I am also the primary caregiver, although wtf I thought I had another 10 years or so before I had to EVER call myself either of those.  I am starting to think about things like home care and visiting nursing and whether there are any doggie respite homes for her poor dog who is just so sad staring at my mum all “Seriously?  Can we play?  Soon?”  For the most part I’m taking care of business, all positive outlook and making broth but tonight it all hit me like a fucking ton of bricks.  This is some serious shit.  There are more appointments with doctors, CT scans and medications, and more hurry up and wait for results that may or may not tell us anything, and I will handle it.  Because I have to.  Because when I want to just curl up and cry because it’s too hard, and call for my mummy?  I can’t.  Because right now and for the forseeable future?  She needs me more.

I am so not ready for this.