In the feverish legarthy that has been one of the worst colds I've had in oh, two goddamn months, I have yet to sleep the night all the way through this week, despite pill-popping with abandon.
I dreamed my dad was alive again, he was still dying, but it was now, almost two years on, and he was back, just for a smidge of time, and we got to say good-bye again. Except I was scared to say it a second time, the first time was hard enough. Hard enough.
And I couldn't figure out what to tell people "Yea, my dad was dead, now he's not, but he is dying, again, and I need some more time to deal with this". How would people take that, I thought, even as the dream was playing on, mid-dream I was wondering this.
My dad was young again, mid-thirties, as was my mom, who was doing a kind-of hand-wringing routine of 'what now, what next'. My sister was there, too. We sat close to my dad, touching his arms, his shirtsleeves.
What can I say.
It's been a stressful week.
Sometimes I just have to go somewhere else.