Head, Meet Chicken

– Posted in: Cancer Sucks, Chronic Pain, Cleaning, Elfie, Newt, Parenting, Personal Insanity, Sappy Tammy, Worrying

Today has been one of those run-around-like-a-crazy-person days. The kind where there’s so much to do in your house that you keep getting distracted by equally opposing forces (I’ll just put this leftover pizza in the fridge so it won’t spoil. That is, after I take the clothes out of the dryer so they won’t get wrinkled. That is, after I play with the kid so she won’t need as much therapy later). My day started much earlier than usual, at 5 a.m. (I know, waa, waa, some people get up that early every day). Elfie crawled into my bed because she had yet another urinary tract infection. The poor kid has only been off of antibiotics for a whopping 2 days.

This was definitely one of those days when I would’ve normally called my mom (were she not currently deceased). Here’s the list: Elfie has her five thousandth UTI, not to mention a cut on the bridge of her nose that Tenzin “sewed up” with surgical glue (Newt accidentally whacked her with a large canister last night); I had what seemed like the world’s longest dental appointment and drove home crying because this ridiculous orthotic is causing all of my usual chronic pain to become more chronically painful; and then I discovered that Newt’s first fillings are scheduled on a day when Tenzin is working five hours away for three days (Have I mentioned that Tenzin hasn’t been working for the last two months? Have I mentioned that every time one of the kids has a major childhood injury or procedure, Tenzin is gone? Have I mentioned how bad I am about keeping a pocket calendar in my purse to schedule appointments?).

So calling my mom on a day like this probably would’ve been a likely course of action. If, for no other reason, just to hear her freak out about everything so that I could get annoyed about how freaked out she was getting. The problem is, now there’s no one else to get freaked out but me. And it’s really no fun — and certainly not terribly productive — to get myself all worked up just so I can roll my eyes at myself and tell myself to calm down. It just doesn’t have the same effect.

So I will go to bed tonight with my daughter, who hopefully won’t need to pee every half hour, and my head, which hopefully will stop hurting if I take enough drugs, and my thoughts, which hopefully will stay off the topic of “Pediatric dentists — do they really need to treat this sudden rash of cavities I keep hearing about, or is it total overkill?” But I won’t go to bed with the satisfaction of having that one phone conversation today that could’ve stopped me in my frenetic tracks and made me feel a little less like a decapitated chicken. That conversation will unfortunately be left for dreaming only.

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