Mary inadvertently reminded me that I'd been quite remarkably restrained in the swearing department while the Professor's absence continues.
So:
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck and buggery.
Yeah well he's still in there. He was being discharged and happened to get an a) conscientious and b) cardio trained nurse who realised he hadn't had an ECG since his admission on Sunday and whacked him back on the machine and found his irregular heartbeat was back.
Discharge cancelled. Angiogram scheduled.
Diabetes is the complication rather than the cause of his internment.
Enough. I have a rather severe hypochondriac in my immediate family and I simply can't bear to go into more detail.
This blogging is marking a moment in time for me; a record of this stuff, for what it's worth.
Back home: children have eaten in front of tv two out of the last three nights and have exhibited predictably bratty behaviour.
We NEVER eat in front of the tv. Well, only in emergencies. At least I got them to all eat two colours of capsicum tonight - that's got to count for something, right?
EDITED (laptop battery died before I'd really finished, I find I have more to say)
As my warning lights flashed for a flat battery, there was still a line nagging at me, something I needed to get down while this moment exists: this moment that, without being overly dramatic, is reminding me of so many choices I've made and the consequences for my most precious people.
"Things fall apart". It was Yeats, I knew that much. Fucking laptop died before I could look it up. Of course, it's sitting on my bookshelf too, which is where I found it, eventually, while thinking about whether to stay up and write more or not.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
Things do fall apart, when the pattern changes. I looked at the half-cleaned kitchen tonight and thought:"Fuck it (see, I do swear a lot normally, Mary) if the Prof wasn't around those children would TOTALLY have to learn to scrape their own plates".
Sure, they bring their plates to the kitchen, sure they line them up nicely waiting for the dishwasher, but there is a LIFETIME of sorting still to do after that, n'est pas? And because I do most of the dinner cooking, I rarely have to return to the kitchen to do the dog work of cleaning up, too.
But I have to, tonight.
Am I spoilt? I don't know. There are certainly many people who are used to looking after three children alone or largely alone. I suspect I'm just not used to it. I fondly hope that I won't have to become used to it, yet.
It's the drudgery. The drudgery that I felt we were only just escaping as the twins turned five recently. The sheer physical grind of parenting and housekeeping that makes you so frigging tired. That makes me a bad parent, a bad housekeeper, because I feel overwhelmed.
That's the taster I'm getting now, with my generation-older husband trapped in that stupid hospital. The taste of what it would be like, if he was never here.
It sucks in a unique, a very special way all of its own.
I need him.
Not just for the sex. For the dishes, too.
***
And thank you all. You're lovely, one and all.
mtc
bec
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