I always seem to on the days I have time for a little book writing. It was a desperately sad dream because in it he had picked up some sort of intestinal virus and it made him so, so sick and there was nothing I could do to make it better.
Like real life, I suppose. When the people you love hurt, you would give or do anything to make it better for them and it is pure agony not being able to.
My parent are aging and old age is the ultimate ‘can’t change it’ scenario. My mother is amazing in her youthfulness but the inevitability of age is waiting just around the corner for her. The optimist in me wants at least two more years of her (and my stepmother and my stepfather) continued good health but the pessimist inside says ‘Hah!
The last twelve months have been amongst the worst of my life. I had a tumour in my breast removed, my husband had a heart attack, my dad’s cancer came back and her died, my daughter moved overseas for two years…
People keep telling me the next year has to be better but I feel like that is tempting fate. I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, based on past experience. I fully expect my husband to have another heart attack or one of my parents to have a terminal diagnosis and I cringe away from the mere thought. Oh, I will step up and I will do it all over again x 4 (and it will be me – I am the only daughter/wife in the family) but I just hope for a little time to not have to be that person again.
Writing the book about my father inevitably dredges up these negative thoughts.