My darling Moira turned 12 today. It’s been a weird sort of birthday that started well with gifted pastries but ended with me sobbing into my pillow while the family ate a make shift dinner. I spent a lot of time looking at old photos of this ridiculously beautiful child that I somehow made and trying – and failing – not to get emotional. I’m so grateful that I am still here but there is this voice inside all the time that whispers about whether this is actually a good thing or not. I mean, I know no one is going to love these girls like I do, but I remember reading once that statistically the worst time for children to go through a divorce is between the ages of 11 and 14. I imagine losing your mother during this time is right up there with the worst possible timing – there is never a good time but this is exactly the wrong time. She was seven when I was diagnosed and I want all the extra years I can have but it’s also got to be shite to have a mom who is sick all the time and you have to help her put on her socks. That is supposed to be my job.
But she never complains about it. Ever. And I wanted to make her birthday special.
Anyway the dinner situation was this: we splurged on some Indian food through Skip The Dishes because her one request for her birthday is to go to a restaurant called The Taj Mahal on Wednesday nights for their vegetarian buffet. Obviously that can’t happen right now. But we didn’t get our order through a mishap of mine (I was one number off on our four-digit house number) and so they sent a message saying they delivered the meal. Then cancelled the order. Then they wouldn’t try and help us get our food and they won’t reimburse us. I know this is partly on me and partly on spectacularly crappy customer service but it seems like just one more thing to add to the pile. (Also, the girls saw the Skip The Dishes driver across the street and waved at him so how hard would it have been for him to get out of the car and check the address? Apparently they called, but I received no calls.)
Going through chemotherapy is kind of like having a brain injury because while the drugs are keeping you alive there is a steep cost. It drives the Mister crazy because I am not the responsible person I once was. And while typing in one wrong number is an easy mistake anyone can make it is just one more example of how I am NOT THE PERSON I WAS which feels like yet another strike against me. Another reminder of how I am failing.
Moira, amazing girl that she is, just wants me to forgive myself for all of this and once we are out of isolation go to her favourite place for her favourite buffet. She really is an amazing child and I am so lucky to have her.
(These current blog posts are part of my #100dayproject and are written quickly and posted without significant editing. They are what they are, mistakes and all. Much like me.)