I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing/With a broken heart that's still beating

Sorry about the bitchfest last night. Well, no, I'm not. It's how I felt and how I feel and how I've felt for years now (eight years now, actually. Sad, isn't it? I'm only twenty-four) and I very strongly doubt that that will ever change.
I think my co-worker has lung cancer, I don't know if I posted this before or not. She's out on indefinite leave and the office staff isn't allowed to share with us what's wrong, but she's been coughing horribly for two months now and the x-ray they took came back bad so they took a CT scan and she hasn't been back since. I'm worried about her; she's a genuinely kind person who sees me, not just another pair of hands. I'll miss her. I don't think she'll die from it, if that's even what she's got, but my mom has recently pointed out my amazing (or maybe it's horrible) track record of awful predictions that come true. I've only been wrong once in the past 6 years, and that was only a matter of timing--I was wrong then, but ten days later everything changed and I became right. But there's a first time for everything, especially (I hope) for me to be seriously wrong about something terrible happening to somebody.
I have to go in to work at five tomorrow instead of six. That's five in the morning. The woman in question who's sick, B., is the five-am-person and because she's sick, they need to find someone who can cover it. The trick here is that no one is willing to come in at five, especially not me, so what they're doing is having the night attendants get her people up (who, yes, need to be woken at five so they get out the door in time). Which is fine, except that I'm not trained with those particular people and they're not an apartment I can learn on the fly; I have to go in to specifically be trained with them. Plus one of the people who lives in that apartment is an absolutely horrible person; she is the living personification of the word "bitch," and no, I'm not exaggerating. At least five people have quit in the past four years solely because of her. This is going to suck big time, but at least I'll only have to do it I think twice in a two-week period. Which is still way too much, but...I'll take what I can get.
I decided to do something for myself today, in an admittedly feeble attempt to feel better. So I did the girly thing and got my hair done--cut and dyed. It's actually a little shorter than I had it when I was in college, and the dye job was fantastic. The whole thing looks great, and I absolutely love it; I'm going to see if I can post a picture of it tomorrow.
Sadly, however, it didn't actually help anything, except it did fill me with a sense of relief of having my hair back the way I like it, i.e. short.

And I know you're sorry. But sorry doesn't fix the puppy's broken legs.