Saturday, September 22, 2012

Back on the Sofa Again

That's right. The abominable-formerly-yellow-fifties-era-Jackie-O-sofa-from-hell is my bed yet again. You should be glad, really. I've hardly been writing a thing. Here, anyway. I've been writing scads of useless crapola elsewhere, but this blog was truly spawned out of the utter sleeplessness that is this "bed" of mine.

Why, you ask, am I here again and not out in my queen size bed?


Well, I guess I should say more cancer. As many/most of you know we lost Papa Scat to it last year and now Baba Scat is dealing with her fourth cancer. Yes, I said FOUR. And I can officially say cancer sucks. Mostly for her, though. After a really, really bad night with some Cytoxan during which she tried to call for help and the Deaf Person (Buddy Scat) couldn't hear her (ok, none of the deaf persons could hear her), it was decided that the only person on the property with ears should be stationed in the house where she could hear Baba if she got sick or fell or called out in the night. Or something.

So here I am. At 4.30 am. Wide flipping awake.

And absolutely nothing has happened since. Well, some untoward behavior on the part of the Cytoxan but no screaming or falling or anything.

Except maybe when Squib tried to use the towel bar last night to climb over the toilet stall door (yes, he is a ninja) to hit Buddy on the head (this is Buddy's explanation too and they seemed to think it was perfectly normal) and not only did the towel bar break, but the stall door came off and hit the floor along with at least one human body. Maybe two. They are being very vague about the whole thing and just passed me the stall door through the bathroom door and kept on about their business never mind the fact that I did almost have a stroke and ran back there like I was going to have to either resuscitate my dad or witness Squib's first compound femur fracture (that seems to be the limit at which my children realize the wrestling is 'over.') But they won't say anything about how it started. Thirty-three years ago I'd have been shot, drawn, and quartered for breaking a door off it's hinges, but nooooooo. It's like a pact of silence. It was supposed to be a convenient way to get Squib clean by throwing him in the shower with Dad because goodness knows he's not quite got that shower thing down yet.

And we still don't have a tub. Off topic.

It's ok. Don't mind me. You just put me here to listen for things to go thud. And then...well...come on guys, I hear EVERYTHING. And when human bodies hit the floor, I run. There was screaming, falling, and a giant thud. So I call foul!

Anyway, snoring? Increased by a factor of at least five. Random scale there. That clock on the mantel? Will not be ticking anymore after I get finished with it today. Trips to the bathroom? Well, they may just as well sleep there. Trips to the refrigerator? Don't. Get. Me. Started. I think they're using it to light the kitchen. I'm definitely considering unscrewing the light bulbs in that damn thing before the day is over.

But the truth is, I wouldn't have it any other way. This ridiculousness is the stuff of legend around here. The thing we remember when we make it through whatever we're struggling with. And we promised Papa that we'd take care of Baba, so if that means I have to sit in her room 24-7, then that's what I'm going to do. And, yes, it sounds like I'm complaining, but really...I'm taking note of the absolute, total, and complete insanity that is any modern family.

If they're doing it right.

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