Where’s the off switch?

Brain power

Today, I have a real sandwich going on. A lot of noise in my head. A lot of tension. I am an elastic band waiting to snap… a few little pings have already happened and poor Tom suffered my sharp tongue, his ball in the bin. (How many times do you have to say ‘no balls inside’??)

Mum has lump.

Willy wants pancakes. Now.

Mum also has bad blood results – something about her pituitary gland not functioning properly.

Tom wants to play mathletics and needs my help to turn on the computer. Now.

Mum has an appointment for a mammogram on Tuesday. I need to book my train tickets.

Willy shouts that the pancakes need flipping… NOW.

The doctors have said that if the pituitary isn’t working, it could mean a tumor.

Tom has won his mathletics race and I need to go and see it! And where is his pancake?

How do you encourage an elderly lady into an MRI scanner, to see if she has a brain tumor? The thudding would completely freak her out…. Is it worth it?

Willy finds me.. He has spilt water, he has tried to clean it up, the cloth was too wet, so he has used loo roll.

How do you encourage an elderly lady to de-robe and place her breasts on a cold machine? In front of people she doesn’t know?

Tom can’t untie his stud boots.

I need to book my train tickets. I need to be with my Mum. Hold her hand. Tell her everything will be ok. Support my Dad as he supports my Mum.

The dog has walked through the bog roll mush on the kitchen floor.

Oh god my dad… he fell at tennis and has a black eye. I need to hold his hand too.

Willy needs to take his laxative and we have no chocolate treats left. I lie. I tell him I’ll find one if he drinks it.

Would you even give an elderly Alzheimer’s patient an MRI? If it is a tumor, wouldn’t that be a way to let her escape her living hell?

It’s 10.25. We need to get to football. The kitchen is a bombsite…. Loo roll, muddy paw prints, open and discarded yoghurt pots, flour from the pancakes…

Is it cruel to think like that? Did I bring that on? Manifest the tumor, the lump? Because I can’t bear seeing my once glamorous, multi-lingual, articulate mum alive in the sorry, pitiful, shuffly, grunting state she is in?

James left at the crack of dawn to cycle some ungodly distance, let’s hope I am back before he is… or I will get a dressing down from Mr OCD.

I must book my train tickets.

I must read up on pituitary glands.

I must get something for lunch.

I must get to football.

I must mop the kitchen floor…

I must go and thank Grandpa, find out about Granny’s golf…

I must put a wash on, change the sheets…

I must feed the dog, do Tom’s laces, get rid of the yoghurt pot, post this blog.

I must find my off switch.

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