When I was much, much younger than I am now (forgive the dramatic tone of that statement, but yesterday? I signed my eight year old sisters up for an online game that I have played, on and off, since I was ELEVEN. *gulp* The mortality? It frightens me.) I met a girl who could have – if I had been a sheep – lead me astray.

We were fourteen and I was on the outer with my usual group of friends (that’s a whole other post, and one day I hope I can write about it here), so instead of shying away from the strange girl with streaked hair and (oh my gosh!) piercings, I befriended her. It turned out to be the best friend-related decision I made that year.

Lyndsie and I have remained friends; close, despite the fact that we don’t speak more than every couple of months. She calls my Mum ‘mum’, and has never once looked down her nose at me or my family. It’s been years since we saw one another face to face, but I could still pick up the phone and tell her anything, everything.

For the last month and a half, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Lyndsie. I sent text messages, I e-mailed, I called. She never responded, and her phone was off, a lot. At first, I figured she was busy; I knew she had only just gotten a new job, and so I didn’t stress too much. Then, yesterday, I got a phone call:

“My mum and nephew were killed in a house fire.”

I expected a flamboyant, ridiculous excuse for her being busy. Like, eloping in Vegas. Falling pregnant. Moving to another country. Lyndsie is a crazy, impulsive person; she takes risks. Not once did I expect to hear her voice, detached and strangely robotic, telling me how her dad is barely coping, but she is, ‘all right’.

God, she really isn’t. Her voice cracked, and she struggled – sounded almost human – on the ‘all right’, and even over the phone my eyes burned with tears. She is not all right, or okay, or even coping right now. I can’t do anything to help except be here for her – and even then, only on her terms.

‘I’ll call you Monday,’ she told me, ‘when I can talk.’

I’d like to say that I rushed over to her place right away and sat with her for hours, talking in that silent way that friends – that Lyndsie and I - do. I didn’t, though. I won’t. She asked me to wait until Monday, until she’s ready to talk about it. Part of being a friend, part of supporting someone, is respecting their need for space.

Of course, mixed in with the concern for Lyndsie are my own selfish fears. My mother’s operation and the changes it effected have already made me acutely aware of how little time I could possibly have with her. To imagine going through what Lyndsie is, even being prepared (as I would be), touches and hurts me deeply.

When I was about fifteen, I remember hearing from a friend that a classmate’s mother had died. She fell asleep at the wheel while driving home from work; the tree she ran into was around the corner from her house. My friend’s father was a volunteer rescue worker, and he was called to the scene. She was his friend, too.

I couldn’t imagine being Kimberly (or her younger sister), losing their mother right as they began maturing into women. I understood that she was angry, that she missed her mother, but my mind refused to even imagine myself in her place. I simply clung tighter to my own mother, and tried to forget the incident.

Kimberly and I weren’t friends, really, so it almost worked.

But, I can’t forget this one. Lyndsie will never forget it; her mother, stuck in a wheelchair. Her nephew Malik, only three years old. Lyndsie will hurt, ache even, forever. And because I have to remember, for Lyndsie, I can’t brush off the possibility of losing my own mother anymore.

The last month has been a bad joke – the kind without a punch line.

(Before I launch straight back into my usual whining, I’d like to say THANK YOU, to everyone who commented/messaged/called/e-mailed me to wish my mother well.)

Mum is home. She is home, and in a lot of pain – even though it will have been a week tomorrow since her surgery – and I am doing my very best to make things easy for her. I mean, I’m cooking, guys. Seriously, I’m frying stuff and stirring things and pouring liquids and everything. It’s horrible, but I’ll manage somehow.

Stephen is also home. He’s basically spent a lot of time playing computer and watching movies, and every time I eye him, all, ‘You could go to school today.’ he whines about how sore his leg is. I had to help him in and out of the bath, which was pretty much as awkward as it sounds. Fifteen years olds are hilariously modest.

My nana hurt herself today; she fell over at the supermarket and cut her hand up pretty badly. It’s all stuck together with what basically amounts to doctor’s duct tape, and she has a pretty nasty bruise. I bet you’re all wishing you were part of my family right now, huh? Yeah, we get all the fun. Where FUN equals DOOM.

School is.. well. With the exception of Editing, I’m pretty much caught up with everything. Desktop Publishing and Editing will take a bit of hard work, but my teachers – especially my Editing teacher - are awesome. They actually remember having lives, and they know shit stuff happens. I should be caught up soon.

I’ve been having major issues lately with companies taking money without warning. 3 took the money for my phone bill even though it had already been paid, and before that? Foxtel charged me almost double the amount they were supposed to, and then refused to give the money back except as a credit on my account.

Never mind the fact that I didn’t even want the platinum package, and that they don’t even broadcast Channel Seven or even that they took the money out on the WRONG DAY without issuing me a bill! I mean, c’mon! It’s Foxtel! They don’t need any of that fancy-schmancy customer service crap stuff. Losers.

Anyway, every time one of those fuckers idiot companies take money when they’re not supposed to, my account is empty (or close to it, because really? I’m a student, what do you expect?) and so they overdraw it. Then my bank is all, ‘Yo man, we spotted you that money yesterday, so we’re taking thirty bucks extra.’

You know, for effort. Or something, I don’t know. It’s one of the ways they make money, I suppose. Although, truly? I shouldn’t really bitch complain about my bank, because they have been awesome. They reversed two of the three charges (That’s right, people. Three times!) with no fuss, and didn’t make me wait hours on hold.

Unlike some companies, who could really use some of those customer service skills.

I don’t know if I mentioned this elsewhere, but my mother was scheduled for surgery this afternoon. We took her to the hospital at 12:30pm, and left about an hour later. As I write this, it is 7:00pm, and we still haven’t heard anything back.

I really wanted to be there when she woke up, but the staff won’t allow you in until the patient is ready to go, which sucks. It’s scary waking up from a general anaesthetic by yourself, and I’m going out of my mind without news.

Also, I have about a million pieces of homework to complete. As I’m sure you can guess, progress on work is going along fantastically, what with the worry and all. This post, really, is just to vent a little bit. And to ask a small favour.

Send good thoughts my Mum’s way, please.

Or not, because I feel bad about disappearing on certain people.

(This post deals with vomit, and may offend those with weak stomachs.)

Basically, I’ve been sick this week. Really, horribly sick, with some sort of virus that not only made me want to sleep all day and night, but gave me such a horrible headache when I was awake that I had to eat Advil like lollies. On top of the virus and all the sleeping, my asthma played up and I had a few attacks.

My family will probably be thinking right about now, that it was only ONE asthma attack, but they’re wrong. See, this virus thing has been threatening for over two weeks now, and that’s why I was taking my Ventolin – because I had already experienced a minor asthma attack, along with some shortness of breath.

Anyway. At first, I figured it was the awesomely cold weather we’d been having, and I just ignored it. Apparently that pissed the virus thing off, because last week it got a lot worse. I made it to one class, maybe two, and I had a bad night with my asthma, but I thought I’d be better by the weekend. Boy, was I wrong.

Although, honestly? The weekend wasn’t actually a problem. I just didn’t blog during that time because I was playing WoW pretty much constantly, and I COULDN’T log off for unimportant stuff like eating and blogging when I could level instead! Yeah. I play WoW, now. I know; I said I never would, but I have been converted.

That previous sentence really deserves it’s own post.

Anyway, it was Monday when I started to feel sick again. And then, basically, I got into my mother’s bed on Tuesday morning – when I came downstairs to say hello and let her know I was awake – and I climbed out on Friday afternoon. In between, well. I slept. I took unhealthy – for me - amounts of Advil. Also? I nearly died.

Late on Wednesday or Thursday night, I woke up and realised that I couldn’t breathe properly, or really at all. I was taking in short gulps of air, so I sounded like a dog panting. My head was throbbing, aching so badly that I wanted to cry, and no one else was awake. Fantastic. Luckily, I had an asthma pump right next to me.

I turned on the machine and held the mask to my face, and about five minutes later I could breathe somewhat easier. I was also coughing – or trying not to – and every time I shook, the pain in my head would shoot into my eyes. Ouch, in other words. So, I went to take some Advil. No hesitation, you notice; I was pretty damn sick.

In retrospect, I should have made sure that I was awake before I attempted to take it. I probably should have used the pump until I could actually breath properly, too. But, whatever. I didn’t, and so I staggered out of bed, grabbed the Advil and tossed one in my mouth. Then I took a swig of Powerade and swallowed.

And wouldn’t you know it? The little shit of a pill got STUCK.

As an aside, before we get to the funny part of this entry, I don’t like taking pills. Ignoring my dislike of medication itself for a minute, I physically despise swallowing pills, capsules, whatever. I actually gag and feel sick when I think about taking them, and afterwards I shudder. So, yep. Keep THAT in mind.

What happened, you see, is that I had a Powerade bottle. They have that stupid pop cap thing on the end, so my ‘swig’ ended up being less than a mouthful. The pill got stuck halfway down, and I started gagging, but I was also trying to swallow at the same time, until – of course – I lost the battle, and spewed. Everywhere.

As another aside, I had goulash and rice for dinner.

I projectile vomited across the floor at the foot of Mum’s bed. I actually managed to get some on my laptop, which was on the OTHER SIDE. Crap. I freaked out, because I couldn’t breathe already thanks to the asthma, and- SHIT. As I was looking around frantically for something to clean it up with, I vomited AGAIN.

God. I whimpered a bit, trying to wake Mum up, because I was sure that I was going to choke on my own vomit, or need to go to the hospital, but she snored away, blissfully unaware of my predicament. And that’s when my body decided to really go wild. I had just grabbed a towel to clean up when it happened.

My stomach revolted, and instead of holding on to the towel, and trying to catch the spew or something, I dropped it and cupped my hands together. And somewhere between then and vomiting, my body had tricked me, because I didn’t just throw up, oh no. It came out of my mouth AND my nose – straight into my hands.

I kid you not. I was so worried about getting it everywhere that I actually cupped my hands together, threw up, and then ran into the bathroom. Anyway, I spewed into the sink, and I was running the tap and trying to get my hands clean, and my hair out of my face, all the while gasping for breath. Classy, eh?

When I was finally done, I started blowing my nose, trying to clear it of the nasty crap that had gotten up there. I couldn’t even believe that vomit had come out of my nose; I was still trying to figure out HOW it had happened. Anyway, I was blowing my nose and suddenly I heard a little ‘POP!’ inside my head.

And when I looked down, there was rice in the tissue.

Doesn’t that make being horrendously sick for a week worth it? I laugh every time I remember the rice, really. Although, my Mum telling me there “should be someone in the dwarven city” to clean up my vomit was also a bright spot. Thankfully, I am no longer sick – and as you can see, NOT DEAD – and so I can laugh about it.

I found an interesting link today, via Bluepaintred’s site. Have you heard of ‘The Lazy Bloggers Post Generator’? It allows you to customise a whole heap of options that are then strung together to make a blog post, apologising for not blogging. Of course, I had to check it out, so here you go:

Crikey! I just climbed out from under my rock and realised I have not updated this since Hammertime was in the charts… You would not believe that my hands were chopped off and I was waiting for bionic ones. Apologies!

I am lost in a sea of pseudo-olde-english with an awfully big adventure, selling my soul to Google, just generally being a biatch to the servants, my day is passing in a blur from the light through yonder window breaks to whenever. I am putting money aside so I can run away. but this damned rock is heavy.

I absolutely, positively promise I will write something that makes sense soon. You have my word! I really, truly promise!

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The sad thing is, it’s not that different from most of my posts, heh.