When does Caring become Comedy?

When does Caring become Comedy?

I have four children with additional needs. I used to say "3" but #1 son has more recently developed problems of his own. Nothing major, but foot surgery (both feet) for permanently dislocated toes due to a connective tissue disorder is definitely not run-of-the-mill.

The appointments for my brood, plus my own (I have two autoimmune diseases, osteoarthritis and pretty severe allergies) and my husband's (glaucoma, the genuine full-on kind with optic nerve damage) are utterly overwhelming at the moment. We average four appointments a week between us. Some local, some in London. And all of these understandably involve my participation - although I am excused many of my husband's eye appointments. I am invariably planning appointments, notifying schools, ferrying children around and attempting to ensure clinic letters are communicated amongst professionals involved with our family. It's a full-time, thankless job, which prevents me taking on alternative employment.

Knowing that there are many others worse off, and grateful for the support we sometimes get I don't often moan, but there does come a point beyond which "normal life" (whatever that is) ceases to become an option, at least in the short term. This week, we undoubtedly pushed through that boundary.

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