The thing about work is that if you do it well you keep getting more of it, whether you want it or not.

Had I only been less competent at caring for my son during his two bone marrow transplants. 

Now I’ve got another task, off and on, for the next few weeks (mainly on for this week).  I’m helping care for my mom.  She has pancreatic cancer that has spread to her liver and lymph nodes.  Of course, the prognosis is grim, but in a much different way than was my son’s relapsed leukemia (who is doing well about now).  Mom’s had nearly her full measure of three score and ten.  My son has had maybe twelve good years, and five really lousy ones.

Along the way in all this, I’ve found out that she had become something of an atavan (sp?) addict–before the diagnosis.  Now she’s taking heavy doses of the drug, and as anyone that’s been around someone on the stuff knows, it turns the mind and the body pretty much to mush.  But the alternative is to deal with her in her coherent state, which is often not pretty when she gets a mean on, and she gets mean when she’s not feeling well.  But while she’s on atavan, she’s very nearly an invalid.  It won’t likely be long until round-the-clock professional care is needed.

So, dadgummit, as we say down here in the South.  Here I am again.  Maybe if I get the chance, I’ll post about her situation, and our very complicated relationship through the years.  In the meantime, I’ll just have to do my best at a job I loathe (it’s why I never wanted to be a doctor), but must somehow be at least marginally competent at accomplishing.