Sometimes it's like housework...

"It's not all beer and skittles", they say, and it's true. Sometimes, life is harder than we'd like it to be, the cards we are dealt are not the cards we'd like. I was talking to a poker-playing friend once, and I wondered aloud how the heck anyone could want to play a game where the odds are apparently stacked against you. His response was fairly simple. He said that in poker you get to fold, take a little loss, and come back in the next hand. That and you can work out the odds, or you can bluff and still win with a poorer hand.

The hand I currently hold doesn't seem to be entirely a strong one. I have an Ace of hearts in Christine, a Queen of hearts in Tess (who is 10½), but for the most part, I feel that I have dross in the rest of my hand. Not that I'm going to fold, not that I'm going to lose entirely, but playing the hand right is important for me and the rest of the family.

Christine is treatment-weary, the chemo is hard on her both physically and mentally. I'm treatment-weary too, just in a different way. One of the things that I am finding as a carer is that I feel I should always be doing stuff. If it's not making drinks, or meals, or juice, it's laundry or housekeeping or shopping. If I'm not doing one of these things, I tend to feel guilty. I fret if I'm sitting and relaxing. I agonise if I sit down to write.

I was talking with my sister-in-law a few days ago, and she came up with an expression that I'm going to share here. To put it into its proper context, we were talking about why some doctors really seem to enjoy their jobs, and some don't. Part of her reply was this - I think lots don't enjoy it because it isn't what they thought. They thought they would make people better. But it turns out to be messy and complex and the person gets sick again, damn it. It's like housework.

Well, what do you know. That's just like looking after someone with cancer. You do a thing, and do it well, only to have to do it all over again soon afterward. Chemo is like dusting. While it's going on, it seems never to end. There's always more tiredness, always more painful and inconvenient symptoms, always the fatigue. What respite there may be after a few days is too short-lived. The dust will be back on the bookcase all too soon, and out comes the feather duster once more.

This is how it is - if Christine stays in, I stay in unless there's an errand to run. Once she goes out, then I feel free to go out myself.

That's the tiring bit, that doing it all over. So why do we do it? I don't know about doctors, but I do know this. Looking after Christine (and Tess too) is a lot more rewarding than you might think. We know right now that Christine has no evidence of disease (NED, nice acronym from her oncologist), and the last round of three sessions is an insurance policy. Whilst it's expensive (in terms of the short-term suffering), it's worthwhile in the long term. Even if all this means just a few years (and we're hoping to beat all the odds), it will be worth it.

I am starting to realise that the way to tackle this is not to try and do it all at once. Vacuum the living room carpet, have a cup of tea. Tidy those books away, sit and read a few chapters. Make the bed with clean sheets, treat yourself to a wee snooze, not forgetting to set an alarm. For the love and the pride and the honour and the joy, I carry on. I just need to remember to take some time to look after me, too.

Oh, look at the muscle!

The muscle car, that is. Larry ain't no muscleman, that's for sure. The car's a Plymouth Belvedere, 1956 vintage, just like me. It represents what I'm coming to think of as "classic America", big and gaudy with '50s chrome. Here's the same smooth, shiny lines of the Happy Days diner and the Harley.

When we were in Port Townsend we visited such a diner, where I had a fabulous clam chowder and creamy milk shake. The chrome-and-formica counter, the curvy jukebox and the old-fashioned Coke fridge were all present and correct. It was almost as romantic, for me, as seeing the old gold towns. Or visiting Billy the Kid's grave.

But I digress. Here's this big ol' car with massive metal chassis and body, big leather bench seats, and the proud driver alongside. He cares not a fig for the terrible mileage (15 miles to the US gallon), he'd get another in a moment.

Me, I am caught between nostalgia and horror, and right now I'm not sure which will win in the end.

Dude! Where's my car?

Well, let me tell you. Last I saw your car, it was failing to stop at a stop sign. After that, it was shooting down 6th Street at about 30 mph. Shortly after, it was straddling the railway line behind the Davis Food Co-op, and you were doubtless feeling both foolish and bloody lucky. Foolish because you clearly were not paying attention to the main business of driving safely, and lucky because believe it or not, there are trains that run down that line. Big trains. Heavy trains. Trains going fast enough and with sufficient momentum that they would crush you and your car like bugs.

Does this ring a bell with you? Goodness, I hope so. I really wish I'd had a camera because I would be posting a picture of you along with this post. What were you thinking? Clearly, your mind was elsewhere. Maybe you were (illegally) on the phone. Maybe you were texting someone. You may have been reading a map. But whatever you were doing, be aware of this - you were not driving in any way safely, and you were putting other people in danger. In short, you are an idiot and a scofflaw.

Sadly, you are in great company. And I don't mean "great" in the sense of good, either. You are in that great multitude of drivers who clearly don't feel that the basic, common-sense rules of the road apply to you. I've seen them everywhere. On freeways, doing 80+ whilst reading or using a phone, or putting on lipstick.

Now clyclists, don't start feeling all superior and the like. It's not just motorists, you know. At least in Davis, there are dozens, nay, hundreds of cyclists who regularly flout the law and ignore safety. They do all of the above, with added bonuses like riding without lights, the wrong way down the bike lanes and with no hands on the handlebars.

Let me just get this straight. The poor deluded souls in their cars are at least protected by a high-tech steel cage with seatbelts and those explody-bag things to protect them in case of accident. You, on the other hand, are exposed to the elements, and I don't just mean the weather. You are as bad as the guy we started with, who was risking his life by potentially going up against hundreds of tons of train. All teh protection you have is your clothes and a helmet. Good grief.

What is wrong with you people? Do you think you are immortal, or are you just stupid? Evidence points to the latter.