Someone recently had the gall to look at me and ask me politely “How are you?” Social convention demands an easy answer, one that doesn’t draw this innocent and polite person into my mess. But I have such a hard time putting a fake smile on my face, looking back and saying “Fine.” You see, despite being “done” with cancer, being back to healthy, so to speak … I don’t feel fine. I am not fine.

And today, not being fine is making me angry. Do you even know how much I could be getting done if I weren’t battling Extreme Fatigue? Josephine is at school for HOURS. Eowyn takes epic 3-4 hour naps. Eleanor plays happily by herself all day. I could be cleaning, organizing, decorating, meal planning, crafting, blogging, getting my Bible study done, running errands (we’re out of milk), showering. I could be meeting friends at the park, taking the girls to fun places, making healthy after-school snacks to welcome Josephine home every day.

But, no. Do you know what I do each day once Josephine is safely stowed away in her class? I collapse on the couch. I am in and out of sleep until Ella tells me she’s poopy. We change the diaper, and then I collapse back on the couch. If there is no screaming and I don’t smell smoke, I do not move from that couch. I can’t. I am so stinking in-my-bones tired that I let the kids run rampant in the house. For lunch I throw cheese and crackers at them. I usually skip it myself, until I get hungry later, at which time I snack on junk. I have little appetite and no cravings, and yet I fear I’m gaining weight with all this apathy going on in my life. My poor family hasn’t had a healthy meal in a while (except for the lovely one that was brought to us on Tuesday night by a sweet and caring couple from church).

Yesterday, this happened:

She cut her own hair. I didn’t know it had happened until she came to me, on the couch, a little confused as to why her hair was gone. Do you know what we went through to grow those bangs out?! Oh well.

And there’s this:

Why does she still have her pacifier?! And where did she get those spoons? Who knows. Who really cares? At least she’s dressed.

Ella is past 3 1/2 years old and still in diapers. We attempted potty training at the beginning of the summer. It was a disaster. I told myself we’d wait a month and try again. But by then, I’d crashed. Do you know how much energy is required to potty train a stubborn headstrong girl like Eleanor? I don’t think its quantifiable. But she has been reading up:

If someone were to volunteer I’m sure she’d be potty trained in no time. I just can’t do it. (Looking at that picture I realize she’s in the same dress she was wearing yesterday, and to bed last night. At least her diaper has been changed … on account of the aforementioned poopiness.)

Yesterday the most lovely of ladies came over and cleaned for me. She vacuumed and swept and mopped and picked up and wiped down. My house hadn’t looked that good in ages. Seriously … ages! And yet this morning:

It will look like this until she returns next week … or Caleb gets so fed up he makes the girls clean up their mess. I’ll just continue to step over everything. That DVD will probably still be on the floor when my husband gets home tonight. Or it’ll get kicked under the couch, and we won’t find it for a few months … Honestly, I don’t really mind the mess. My kids don’t either, or they’d be keeping it clean, right? So, at least everyone’s happy.

Then there’s me. I’ve stopped keeping track of when I last showered. Under normal circumstances, I actually enjoy being presentable when I go places. I have fun with clothes. I’m even enjoying my short hair. You should see my shoe collection! But between the weariness and the heat wave and my general inability to care, I wear sweats and flip flops and hats … every day. Seriously. I’m a mess, and I know it. Proof:

A thousand times a day I have to consciously unclench my unconsciously-clenched jaw. TMJ they call it. It’s not causing any permanent soreness, and I don’t think I’m actually grinding my teeth. But, still, I have to tell myself to relax. So there must be some stress tied in with the fatigue.

I am so tired of being so tired (and apparently a little stressed). And I swear, if one more person says “It will pass,” or gets fancy like Shakespeare and says “This, too, shall pass,” I might punch them. Although most likely, because social convention demands it, I’ll just smile nicely and say “I know.” But inside, I’m punching them. This weariness is not just physical, it is mental and emotional and spiritual. So I have little sympathy for others, especially people who claim they’re tired. I’ve been the kind of tired that comes with pregnancy, with newborns, with stress, and this is nothing like that. There’s no “pushing through” the tiredness. There’s just crawling onto the couch and collapsing while everything around you falls apart.

It’s not a complete disaster. I AM managing to feed the family. Josie and Ella are at their classes on time every day. The bills were paid a little late this month, but they did get paid. We’re floating. Heads above water. But most days, it feels like only barely.

So when you ask me how I am, and I say what you expect and say that I’m fine … I’m lying. I’m not fine.

P.S.

So what do I need, you might ask? I need a proper nap. Regularly. I need to not be woken up by Eowyn every morning at 5:30 (certainly contributing to the weariness). I need help with meals. We can’t live on chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese! (Or can we?) I need some breaks from the kids … sometimes to nap, sometimes just to experience some quiet, and a break from their neediness. But it has become very difficult to ask for this help. You see, I’m not “sick” anymore. I beat cancer. I’m done with treatments. I have hair. I don’t “need” help anymore. So it feels very weird to ask. I have a ton of sympathy for those battling invisible diseases (fatigue, depression, etc.). So I guess this blog post is my backhanded attempt at pleading for help. To the 4 of you who read this … what would you do?