Making lists, or the scale of crazy to limbless

Last night, during our family meeting, I remarked on how exhausting, horrible, terrifying, kick-the-daylights out of you terrible this is.

We all agreed. My brother said he can't imagine being immersed in anything more heart and gut wrenching. There probably isn't anything worse than dealing with all of the details of a suicidal father.

Is there?

I thought for a moment. "Pedophilia. I think dealing with pedophilia might be worse."

We all thought on that and agreed.

I am pretty much in a state about this. It takes all my time and energy just to hold it together. The Director thinks I'm doing a good job of it, and I so appreciate that. But I feel like I'm on the very narrow, sharp edge of not keeping it together.

I am so glad I have this blog, and this time have chosen to be totally candid with the entire world. Getting it all out whenever I need to helps so much.

On the one hand, I do realize it's bizarre to offer all these grim, personal, family details out to the world. On the other, it keeps me from being completely and totally flattened by them. And if it's a choice, I chose not flattened.

So today, when my friend Maricel at work came over to see how my weekened was, I told her what was going on. Bob's cube is catty-corner to mine, so he overheard and joined us.

She said she just never knows what to say when I talk about this. She asks because she cares about me, but she just doesn't know what to say.

And I said, "That's OK. What can you say? Nobody knows what to say. Really, who has any experience dealing with this? I don't know anyone who has. This is the worst thing I can imagine dealing with."

Then I remembered that I decided pedophilia could be worse. So I told them so.

Bob said, "Yeah, that might be worse. I hope you're counting your blessings."

It suddenly occurred to me that being a Tutsi and having had your limbs hacked off with a machete during the Hutu-Tutsi conflict could be much, much worse. So I said so.

And since we are so, so sick and wrong, I suggested that since Maricel is Filipina, she might, in fact, have a machete. And she said of course she does. Because the suburbs of Virginia can be a scary, scary place.

Maricel is very pretty, and wears cute, trendy outfits and heels. She is always outwardly serene, and says these things with a totally straight face, in a very calm voice. And so it took a couple seconds for the visual of her machete-ing her way through the jungles of suburban Virginia to sink in.

Bob assured me that he'd spend at least 30 minutes this afternoon compiling a list of possible worse things to deal with than a) suicide, b) pedophilia, or c) having your limbs hacked off with a machete.