The cat came home yesterday, full of stitches and staples and bad attitude.
He won't eat. He goes back to the vet tomorrow if he doesn't start. I didn't sleep most of last night worrying about what he was up to, starting at every rustle I heard.
(I've nursed lots of humans through surgery. They at least can be reasoned with. They can tell me what the problem is. I've even nursed cats and dogs through surgery, but things like knee surgery, not surgery on their guts. Gah.)
Still Milton showed marvelous alacrity this morning--after fighting me on the antibiotics I had to administer--by jumping to the top of an 8-ft. bookcase and trying to hide from me. There I was, with a usable leg and a half, teetering again on the top of a step ladder, trying to retrieve him at 6:15 am.
I finally cried...oh, I don't know...about 1 this afternoon. Not sadness, not pain. Just rage and frustration. It's not just the cat, it's my back, my inability to do much of anything physical, the constant grind of the kids' schools. No sooner do I dig out of one crisis, do whatever is necessary to get the kids through one more project, book one more trip for the spouse for work, than I'm right back in it.
It's like quicksand. The harder I fight to keep my head above the surface, the further behind I am.
I never agreed to live my entire life in crisis mode, and I don't know how to make this stop. All I know is that I'm not alone.
And that's cold comfort.
Go listen to some good music: "Just Another Nervous Wreck" from the album Breakfast in America by Supertramp. You know, I'm really pretty tired of being the angriest woman in the world. It wasn't too long ago that I looked forward to my days with pleasure. Of course, my drug of choice is exercise, and withdrawal is a bitch.