Please Excuse my French

I go back and forth about blogging about how I REALLY feel right now.  Like, how I feel inside my mind.  I think about "when" instead of "if" I die.  It is kind of a trip, really.  I bounce between making a to do list of things I should prepare like find a good day care, seeing if the school counsellor will start meeting with my daughter to start a level of trust between them in case she needs it sooner then later, and cleaning out all my crap so when I kick it, there aren't a bunch of skeletons in the closets husband and family have to deal with.  Then I bounce back to a (excuse me) fuck it attitude, let me eat cake!  Then I read the reports that transpired over the past month between docs.  I read about my physical and psychological states.  No weight lose: bad.  No weight gain: good.  Shows signs of understanding the impact of current metastatic state and its impact on life expectancy: good or bad?  Okay, sure, I shook my head I understand that I have to have these fuckers radiated out of my head and take a drug that may or may not work and will make me feel icky.  If it doesn't work, I will die, like, whenever the fuckers decide to rule the grey mater between my ears, and if it dose work, I may not be able to be on the drug for, like, ever.  So if I can't be on it for like ever, then those fuckers will rule my head.  Oh, and did I say if we do, wait when we do as it is a real possibility in a just a handful of years, when we do decide to have a full brain radiation I will become some dough head idiot and possibly loose function of my bowels or something more embarrassing like not remember my children's names.  So, excuse me again, fuck it all.  I am concentrating seeing my grand babies.  And no, Kids, you aren't going to be teen parents, you will be 30, I will be 60, I am putting my foot down.  Statistics fly at meat a high speed on some days.  They crash at my head and then I have another, excuse me, fucking head ache.  So then I find an article about a woman diagnosed stage IV in her 30s and sill walking the walk at 58 (http://livingbeyondbc.wordpress.com/2010/11/29/living-through-my-breast-cancer-timeline/#comment-1624).  No, make that 58 and one half because every six months in between every scan counts.  What does it feel like to live scan to scan?  What does it feel like to take a nap with your five year old son because he so tired but too scared of the wind?  And, then we wake up to snow.  Tiny angels floating on a soft breeze, snow.  The snow is beautiful.  I won't die tomorrow.  It might snow tomorrow.  So maybe this isn't the last time I will see it snow.  Today was another good day.  I pray will see the snow when I am 60.  There feels like a lot of really important days between now and 60.  I don't want to miss a single one.  Tomorrow morning, I have my follow up brain MRI.  Time to march upstairs, kiss my two babies on the their forehead sand make sure their covers are all straight, and climb into my bed next to Husband.  Maybe I better take a Valium.  But wait, I have to take the Tykerb on an empty stomach.  Does momma's little yellow happy pill (and I only take them at night when I am not sleeping) count on the whole empty stomach thing?  Ah, who cares?  You do.  Goodnight.