My thoughts are consumed with the move. And because I can’t stop with entire the moving theme. Here are some tales of my previous moving experiences:

1. Very Early 80s, from Vixen’s Mom’s house to “our” new home, 5 days before our wedding. All goes well (except that I leave the hose on for 12 hours at Mom’s and filled up the basement window wells while trying to water her roses) till the last load. With the truck full with the last of our goods the future-to-be Mr. Vixen (possibly having consumed a couple ice cold ones) instructs Vixen to follow him in the truck while he will ride his dirt bike to the new abode. This shall be done on the back roads to avoid possible meetings with police regarding dirt-only status of said motorcycle. Within 8 blocks of new abode, future-to-be Mr. Vixen decides to attempt wheelie on gravel road. Said motorcycle does not cooperate and dumps future-to-be Mr. Vixen onto said gravel road. This results in quite massive road-rash for future-to-be Mr. Vixen and an inability to stand up and walk the next morning which, in turn, results in Vixen taking him to a nearby emergency facility on a work day, and prompts her current assemployer to explain her services as an employee are no longer required. Ever.
2. Late 80s, from tiny 1st house to new family home, includes 2 cubs ages 18 months and 4 years. This one goes wrong way before move in day. In order to procure the new homestead as cheaplyinexpensively as possible we have agreed in lieu of down-payment to perform sweat equity. We are to install an entire landscaping package: sprinklers, plants and sod. This must be performed prior to closing or no house for us. Days before this must be done, while doing a walk through, Mr. Vixen has a nasty fall while carrying 18 month old as he attempts to exit the new  homestead where there are no stairs. Mr. Vixen’s knee departs the realm of its normal resting place and 18 m.o. goes flying into a pile of re-bar. 18 m.o is ok, Mr. Vixen not so much. Another trip to an emergency facility is required. Mr. Vixen is outfitted with a full leg brace. Our moving company family has scheduled a 6 week trip to Alaska. A quick phone call to Vixen’s younger sister, 1300 miles away, results in a truck load of her old high school buddies arriving at the homestead and performing landscaping in exchange for ice cold ones. Actual moving of stuff is performed by Vixen 2-3 boxes at a time for the rest of eternity.
3. Late 90s, 900 miles away, paid for by lovely employer.For this one, the actual moving is performed by a moving company (I heart moving companies paid for by someone else). They don’t actually move pets though, so the only drawback is the 900 mile drive Vixen (alone, as Mr. Vixen is already there working and has taken two cubs ages 6 and 10 years) must make in a small Hyundai with a Blue Tick Hound, a Bassett Hound, a Chihuahua and the 13 year old cub from hell. Said cub refusesis not enamored of the moving idea, which results in a kidnapping and then 900 miles of very, very angry cub. This adventure is further enhanced by the fact that only 120 miles into it, Vixen stops at a Walmart for leashes for dogs and promptly locks the dogs and the keys in the car. Not a single beast will hand her the keys through the open window, in fact the Bassett comes over and sits on them and stares at her dolefully.
4. Same year as above, only 12 miles away.This should be easy. Only 12 miles, cubs can help carry things and we have a large rental truck. First load is packed, loaded, delivered and unpacked. During packing of second load after the demise of a large glass fronted stereo stand, it is noted that Mr. Vixen does not look well. He is, in fact, somewhat pale, sweaty and might even be clutching his chest? This requires yet another trip to an emergency facility, where Mr. Vixen spends the night. Luckily, my cubs KICK ASS and get a 17 year old friend to drive the rental truck with the rest of our stuff to the new house and unpack all the rest of our crap stuff. Mr. Vixen is release from torture emergency facility the next morning in time to return rental truck. He is fine.
5. Present year, from current joint to points north, approx. 25 miles. Since this current home has seen us through 9 years of teenage to adult cubs, it has amassed quite a bit of density. Inside. As in it is packed. With crap. A full 2,450 square feet of crap. The new digs for Mr. Vixen and myself is 399 square feet. Yes you heard that right. I am moving into an RV. And youngest cubs space is a room 15′x15′. So the magic fairy arrived and moved everything for me and somehow made it fit. Oh, wait…never-mind I woke up.

Seems the doctors may have been wrong in their initial diagnosis of my Grama. They were so sure it was pancreatic cancer. But now they are “sure” it is lymphoma. They are still awaiting more definitive results, especially to see if it is the treatable kind of lymphoma. Also a bone marrow test to see what stage it is. In spite of this, the oncologist is starting chemo today. He says if it is treatable, she should feel measurably better in only one week. If its not the treatable kind, well the chemo won’t “hurt her.” Cancer is never a good diagnosis, but lymphoma is miles better than the others, if it is treatable.

This is just in time, as the destruction this “not knowing” has wreaked on the family has even extended to me. This last week, I have thought things about people I love that are very unkind. It is hard not to get sucked into the fear, anger, and resentment that hangs over all of us like a black cloud of doom. Please dear God, help us struggle through this time and come out the other side with faith and hope.

There is so much daily I want to talk about on here. But it seems I can’t get it into words, because I feel the need to explain everything before I post about it. So I said, self, just start doing it. And myself is trying to listen.

My life is miserable these days. Sure there are other people out there who have it worse. That does not lessen my pain or suffering. I still feel my pain and discomfort without taking away from anyone else’s suffering. And this is my den. And since I have been unable to chew through my leg and escape yet, I will use this space for what it is….a bitchfest on bad days and my bragging spot on good days.

I am so worried about where I am going to live. Since Mr. Vixen stopped working last August, things around here have become increasingly difficult (nearly impossible) on the financial side. I have rented the same place for 10 years this December and the rent has been really exceptional for this area and the landlord very understanding when things are tough. But now they must sell the home (court ordered). I don’t know where to go. I simply cannot afford the rent in this area. And I wouldnt be able to come up with first/last and/or deposit. My kids keep asking what my plan is…..I always have a plan (or so they think). I don’t have one. And it hurts my brain beyond belief to try and come up with one…what to do? I may have an out…a little secret out that may happen which I can’t explain right now. But the problem is, these people who are working on the secret something (people who seem to want to help me) can’t tell me anything…or won’t because they don’t want me to be disappointed. But what am I to do? Just tell my family…we are in limbo, you can hang in there? We have no plan, but I hope we won’t need one? Am I going to have to sleep in my van? Arrgh.