Reality is so much worse than my imagination

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.