This hellish, sleepless week has been taxing. Midge lies dieing, nurses give estimates of how long she has. It seems somehow deciryful and disrespectful planning funeral stuff when someone is alive. So we wait for phone calls.
I read soldiers in Afghanistan would have to be prepared at all times when voyaging about for IEDs though very rare. Waiting for a parcel in the post. That constant raised condition, that heightened state of preparation leads to PTSD.
My partner, driven mad by preparation. Bursts periodically in to psychotic episodes. I try yet my patience can fail me. I had the thought today that she would just die so actions could be carried out. A horrible thought I am ashamed to confess.
Her son travelled up, timing his arrival for the nurses death moment. No visit in five years. First calls are of tracking down money and retributive violence.
She must have heald on for his arrival. Money.
This state of waiting is stopping sleep, stopping eating. Paused. Ready to do what it is you do.
Death and its leftover money bring out the lowest. Her shame, her guilt for being drunk, fear of maternal failings. He will get his money. Then disappear, satisfied.
Then it'll no doubt be us leaping up to gather the clan.
Plan the send off.
Every emotion, great bravery, anger, fear, tearful love, greed, envy. This week has had them all. We are so tired, so very tired.
And Dean lies awake. Alone from his dog who could too be on the way out. His last decade everyday spent together. He can't talk. Just wait, like us for a phone call.
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