22 February 2009

So, let me fill in the story some more.

I am not a bitter woman. I don't really even believe I was bitter back then. I was just overwhelmed. It was the third time Kyle was in the thick of diagnosis and treatments for cancer. The girls were so little, the oldest was two, the youngest 6 months and I felt like I had so much to catch up on, catch up to, and couldn't do it. Always behind or ill-equipped or underpaid or young or all of those and doing what I had to out of blank necessity, rather than marked choice.

And then it came to be that the head of our household came under fate's fire, even before we had a chance to establish "a household." While you don't have a choice when that kind of thing happens to a family, there was another, entirely different span of life as a single mother I had just gotten out of to compound what emotions I already had about our current situation. Matters of an undefined sort, relating to years prior to getting married, cycled through the brain which I had not seperated, understood and resolved before jumping into marriage, moving out of the country, and facing expat life with a sick husband.

So there we were then, living as urban nomads between cities and people's homes, possessions literally stored in the garages, basements, and schools of people we had just met in order to answer to the demands of Kyle's prognosis. In the middle of that, I had decided to move in, against the wishes of my in-laws, with his aunt who had her own ideas of how to be helpful; and it just didn't go smoothly at all. In fact, it was the farthest thing from smooth OR amicable. It would eventually turn into something of a disaster in micro-epic proportions.

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