This year has been particularly difficult on my mom.
She’s homebound, probably in some pain, and can’t do yard work or do a garden, which some of her favorite things in the world.

After everything and yadda yadda yadda, I’m glad she’s still with me, despite how ornery she is.     I know she’s ornery.   It got passed to me.

Mom can still walk.   She’s mentally aware.  She can eat solid food and hasn’t been diagnosed with any fatal disease.
At this point in the game, I really can’t ask for more.
That’s golden, despite what happened to her last month.

—
At the same time, I feel a type of selfish pity.
This is the first Mother’s Day that I 100% know that I won’t be a mother to anyone.
The cancer took that ability away.

So…   I guess I’ve been half-butt throwing myself a little pity party today.
I can tell since I’ve been unusually happy… so happy that it’s forced and causes migraines happy.

It’s one of those things that you know is there, but you don’t want to acknowledge it.  The weird feeling sinks deep inside until it becomes covered with age and filth.   So much so, Laura Croft can’t find it.

It’s just… weird.