I want my life back!

When is self-pity permissible? Before all this crap happened to my parents and, by extension, to me and my little family, I would have said never, or perhaps only very rarely. After all, what purpose does it serve?  Best to waddle forward than wallow, I say. If you find yourself in hell, keep moving. Somebody said that once.

Today, I'm applying for a waiver. Because I'm feeling very sorry for myself.  I want my life back.

Back in June, even though my dad had only been recently diagnosed with cirrhosis, I figured, plow on with your plans. I had no idea of what was in store, or any kind of progression time line for his illness, or Mom's for that matter. I only knew that I was about to turn 46, and that my career as a health journalist had come to a virtual standstill after Mom was diagnosed. I did work, after recovering from my initial trauma, but lacked initiative to seek out gigs and pitch big stories and just deal with the chaff that comes from being a freelance writer. Kindly editors assigned me, but it wasn't enough. At one point I seriously considered applying to my nearest Trader Joe's. They give benefits!

Instead, I figured now might be a good time to go back and get that degree I need to hone my skills - in this case, an M.Sc. in nutrition. School had to be easier than work, right? So I yawned, stretched, and got started. I applied, got accepted, registered, bought the $150 textbook, attended campus welcome things, met with my advisor. The coursework was enlightening and challenging. Gritty science stuff like chemistry, biology, anatomy, physiology -- my temporal lobe was in shock from a decade's worth of disuse. I read for hours, painstakingly memorizing cell forms and vocabulary words like hydrolosis and adenosine triphosphate.

A few hours ago I withdrew from my first class. We decided Friday that Dad would have his liver transplant in Florida, where the wait time is likely to be much, much shorter than here in the northeast. So short, in fact, that it could happen as early as November. He's declined so quickly that waiting for almost a year seems intolerable. That means I need to be free to go to Florida to help out - see him through the transplant, hire home help, or even place him in assisted living for a month or so while he recuperates.  I can take my kids out of school for a week or even two, but I myself cannot take two weeks off from this course, which is the basis rest of the degree.

I want my life back.

This isn't a primal roar, meant to echo to the remote corners of cyberspace. More like a tremulous whimper. There are worse things. I know that. Interestingly, I rarely have these kinds of thoughts while slaving away for my kids or even my husband. Perhaps because much of what I do for them is proactive and a matter of choice, rather than the result of two debilitating illnesses that just seem so damn unfair.

Teaching kids about loss, the hard way

I'm back.  I just escorted my dad back to his home in Florida, where, with the aid of helpful neighbors, a medical alert system, and his doctors, I hope he stays stable for at least a month, after which he'll head up here to begin evaluations for a liver transplant.  More about that later.

I'm dreading the first day of school drop-off, where parents mill around on the blacktop, catching up.  "How was your summer?  Did you go anywhere?"  What do I say?  "I went to Florida for the first half to care for my dying parents.  Then I brought one of 'em back with me for the second half, which he spent a) in the hospital b) in doctors' offices and c) complaining about my cooking. Summer was swell!"

It was a tough summer for the kids, too.  Not just the weeks spent in Florida, which, except for two days at the beach and as many pool visits as we could muster, were pretty bland.  We live in a neighborhood that's crawling with kids, and every summer day is an orgy of grimy play; they missed that greatly while in Florida.  Then there was the trauma: They saw me leave with their grandpa in an ambulance, after seeing him prone and bloodied on the bathroom floor. They waited in 11 doctor/hospital waiting rooms. They've seen me so upset I could barely breathe.

Perhaps worse, I've been distracted and irritable for months now. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until these past few days when I actually had a moment to take stock.  The worst was when I lashed out at one of the girls, who was begging endlessly for some toy or other.

I said -- yelled -- basically, "I've just had to take your grandfather to the hospital, again. And see this grapefruit-sized bruise on my leg?  That's from lifting your grandmother's wheelchair out of the car trunk. Do you have any idea what I have been through?  Can you leave me alone for just one minute?"

Ugly. Yeah. I know. Yet please believe me when I say that I truly could not take one more minute of the whining and begging.  And my girls are tweens, not five years old; I know just from what they read that they have been exposed to death and cruelty and other ugly human conditions. Still, I went too far.  The look on the kid's face after my rant was pure guilt, and horror. Before the summer I was worried that they had become too selfish, and now I fear that they've seen far more than they should have to.