Warning: Sad, non-knitting content below.
I apologize for not posting very often lately. I have been cherrily knitting and sitting in hospital rooms for most of my free time. When I tell folks that I spent most of my formative years waiting in hospitals, I'm only half-kidding. I have spent an above-average percentage of my teens and twenties waiting in hospitals and caring for dying family members, watching my mother's side of my family dwindle to myself and my brother.
I was 15 when my mother went into the hospital for her first surgery. I sat with her and put on a brave face while they got her ready and started rolling her away. As soon as she turned the corner I burst into tears. I spent the rest of the day roming the hospital, sobbing hysterically most of the time. I thankfully had a friend with me that day; he attempted to cheer me up the entire day, then kept me from beating the snot out of my mother's surgeon when he came out and told me that the "little tumor" they had gone in to remove had turned out to be five meatloaf-sized growths.
I then spent the next six years helping and fighting my mother, eventually dropping out of college (I wasn't doing that well anyway) and moving out to the worst place on Earth to take care of her. Watching her refuse chemo, take chemo, lose her hair and get so sick that the chemo nearly killed her. Working/borrowing/pawning everything to pay the rent to keep us off the street. Learning to cook just in time for her to eat nothing but strawberry parfait. Arguing with adult services when they tried to take her away because she took the wrong medication, only to have her wake up the next day with no recollection of the police, emergency room, or the hospice counsellors. Watching her fade away by inches until one day she couldn't walk anymore. Telling my little brother that it wasn't his fault that she was dying a week before she was gone.
Last night Boy came home and asked me what was wrong, and I completely lost it. I have told him more than once that the reason that we didn't get together in high school was so I could be here for him now. I have been trying to be strong for Boy and Boy's father and their family, but last night I could not do it. I screamed and cried and railed against the Universe for making me go through this again in the most selfish hystronics I may have ever endulged in. Boy, while initially confused, understood my meltdown. Once I was done crying he told me how much he appreciated all my support and reminded me that I was not alone this time; we're in this together.
Today I feel much better and quite able to head to the hospital and make small-talk while knitting my grandmother's shawl for as long as it takes.
Tomorrow morning Boy's father will be going into surgery for the same disease that took my mother. If you could, please send some good healing thoughts his way. In return I will post pictures of my first plying sometime this weekend, among other, less depressing, knitting content.