I was lying in bed this morning, talking to myself. I’d had a good night, woke up only once, took a handful of ibuprofen, went back to sleep. Now the pain was back. Not too bad, but a little worse than before. A little thicker and heavier. Like a nagging toothache.
“I’m dying,” I said.
“Everyone’s dying,” I replied.
“Well, yeah. But I’m dying faster than most.”
What I meant was sooner, though it feels fast. Fast as in not a lot of time left.
The conversation continued. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about dying. I’m sad, frustrated, disappointed, envious, resigned, curious, accepting, hopeful…the usual stuff, in other words. Pretty much what you’d expect.
I went round and round with this for a while, until it got to be too much. Unfortunately, this particular spiral doesn’t usually stop by itself. I have to do something to stop it, and nine times out of ten I reach for a book.
