I just finished reading Jen Lancaster's "My Fair Lazy". At the end of the book she says this about the future with her husband:
"Do we want to spend the next thirty years on the couch, waiting to see who wins America's Next Top Model Cycle Forty-Five, or do we want to fill out lives with a million new experiences, even if sometimes they're unpredictable or scary or take effort?"
Damned if I didn't read that line and start crying. My time with the Big Guy is likely short and will be spent with him undergoing treatment. Our time will be spent hiding reality from the Littles and trying to create memories. Will Scoop remember him at all? She's only two. What will this do to our children? How are their lives going to be irrevocably changed? What the fuck am I going to do? How the hell am I supposed to keep my shit together?
Is it a foregone conclusion that he is going to die? No, but that odds are damn bad; somehwere in the neighborhood of a 27% chance he will be here in 24 months. We need a miracle. I'm a Christian ( yeah, a real bible thumper, not that you could tell from the swears I just dropped up there) so I do believe in miracles. Is God going to give us a miracle? I don't know. I hope so but the realist (read: pessimist) in me has to consider the worst.
I spend part of my time pretending this isn't even happening, part of the time going over worst case scenarios and the vast majority of the time praying that God would spare him. A few days ago I told the Big Guy I would be really pissed if he up and died on me. He wanted me to promise him that I wouldn't et mad at God. I told him I couldn't promise that; the best I could do was promise I wouldn't stay mad ( figuring this gives me 15-20 years to keep being pissed).
I guess I should warn you that this will be where I go to vent my angst so I don't infect my family. Feel free to not read, I won't be offended, this stuff sucks & i don't even want to read it.