Tonight, we were watching "Cold Case" and The Husband noted, "I'm surprised you're watching this. You usually hate this kind of show." (Meaning: stressful, scary.)
Good ole escapism. Doesn't bother me a whit, now.
Before, shows like that were too much for me. With my crazy imagination, eek. I was scared of everything.
Now, I'm scared of one thing. And that's it.
Before, my imagination could pull up all kinds of dramatic, harrowing situations. A bump outside my window was the crazed murderer, coming to get us all.
Now, I am learning that little, seemingly insignificant things are far scarier, far more painful than the bogeyman my mind could conjure. A few minutes before my husband made his comment, I was stroking my baby daughter's cheek, her eyelids, her little lips, trying to memorize them. Wondering if I would soon be trying to remember what her skin feels like.
It's nighttime right now. Daytime, I am detached. I can think of such awful things, but in a very detached, unemotional way. If the worst happens, I think, what will we do for a minister for the service? (Our church is currently without). The two that I could call "mine" are unavailable; one is in the Northeast, and one is in Australia. I muse over options.
But at nighttime ... the guard is down. There is no detachment. I videotape Little Warrior playing with her siblings, making sure that I have each one videotaped holding her, making her laugh. I have to stop, my vision is blurry and the viewfinder is wet.
I wish I could take some sort of a sleeping pill, because when I lay down to go to sleep, that's when the worst of the demons arrive. My head swims with worry, with grief. Can't take a sleeping pill, can't even have a beer. Little Warrior is getting all of her nutrition from Mama and alcohol can interfere with chemo.
Please God, may next week's reality be so much better than my imagination.