Kicking and Screaming- And Not in a Good Way

It's been so nice being home.

I've almost got the house back in order.
I've almost got work caught up.

Ward's healthier, heavier (up to 154 from his low of 141, but still 4 pounds shy of his hospital discharge weight of 158- a weight they classified as "extremely emaciated"- and about 40 pounds shy of perfect). He's getting stronger every day, and the last few weeks has been going to out-patient physical therapy instead of having the home nurse come in.

Alec's getting back into the swing of school, art class, tae kwon do and chores.

Yep, sure has been nice.

Time to go.

Nine hours from now we'll be loading the car and heading back to Houston via Jackson Mississippi (I know the abbreviation, I just like typing the whole word) where Alec will compete in the World ITA Championships- his 3rd world championship tournament and his 10th (I think) tournament in 4 years.

Then we'll head to Houston for re-checks and lab work and scans on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

So this week has been collecting our house sitters, getting work situated to work without me for another week, all the mess that goes with leaving home for more than a day.

I've not had a chance to do alot of news-scanning or thinking about much other than those tasks at hand- things to keep my son's life as normal as possible, my farm cared for and my employment justified, for Ward to once again endure things that we hope with all our hearts and minds will show and reassure us that my husband's cancer has not returned, that he is healing properly, that we'll be safe to come home till the next scans in four to six months.

As we've lived now for years- from scan to scan. Appointment to appointment.

Little things frighten me. Like the incision from this last surgery on Ward's neck that refuses to heal.

Because life is so fragile, no matter how big we try to make ourselves appear.

Typing this tonight, bone tired yet not ready for sleep, I listen with half an ear to some Celebrity News Show- and they've got close-ups of poor misunderstood Lindsay Lohan getting sentenced to 90 days in jail for being a terminal, perennial screw-up.

She's in tears and so frightened at the prospect of incarceration. For 90 days.

And I confess to being less than charitable.

I want to slap her upside her spoiled little head and tell her to stop sniveling and get her sorry little ass to jail. Then to rehab. Then, if she's very lucky and smartens up, on to the rest of her life.

90 days?

A walk in the damn park.