*sigh* I wish that there could be at least one thing in this new, unfamiliar life I’m living that could be perfect. Or at least pretty damn close. At this point I deserve something….anything.
Not even cancer parent support group fits the bill…like seriously wtf?!?! Yesterday Mario and I attended our second monthly support meeting. The snarky side of me has yet to catch up with the cancer mom shit because as everyone goes around the room to start and say their name, their child’s name and diagnosis, age and where they are in or out of treatment, I literally have to bite my tongue and stop myself from saying “Hi, my name is Dawn and I’m an alcoholic.” I think the other mothers would laugh, but who knows…my sense of humor, while serving me well through this pile of shit that my family has landed in, doesn’t always come across the way I mean it to to perfect strangers. (There I go again caring what others think!!! Ugh…if you read this long enough, you’ll see the trend, I’m sure )
Anyway…support group. It truly is both the best and worst place to be at the same time. I feel an enormous sense of relief as soon as I start talking about my concerns and worries, stupid people in my life that not only have NO CLUE as to what I’m dealing with, what Elena is going through (and no, I can’t ask people outside the cancer parent realm for true understanding, I get that) but can’t even be bothered to be a tad bit supportive or sensitive or….I don’t know, anything but stupid. It is beyond comforting to see other women, other mothers nodding their heads in understanding. They’ve been there, they know EXACTLY how I feel. It’s remarkable…and in that respect, I’m completely in love with those 2 hours a month.
But, like everything in this hell hole that is the world of cancer, it fucking sucks too. While others speak I can’t help but hold Mario’s hand, sometimes squeeze the life out of it as I hear about so and so’s daughter whose been off treatment for two years and is displaying a whole plethora of symptoms that are either side effects from treatment, or a relapse. Both of those options scare the ever living daylight out of me. Then there is blah-da-blah’s son who has been cancer free for years but will be immunosuppressed for the rest of his life and has a LAUNDRY list of side effects, each of them worse than the one before it. Panic of epic proportions starts to rise up my throat like bile as they discuss their tired concerns about “this time of year,” and how, even years after treatment, they live in fear during flu and cold season because it could STILL send their child to the hospital for an inpatient stay.
UGH!!!!! Fuck. This. Cancer. Bullshit.
Tomorrow is clinic day. Ahhhh Fridays, how I loathe thee! At least I still have my sense of humor though…everyday I’m in clinic I have a strong desire to turn to the mother next to me and say with a nod of my head, “what are you in for?”
One day, my snark will get me into serious trouble (if it hasn’t already??) But for now, I thank sweet baby Jesus for it.