Weird Effects of Being Incurably Sick

      Fatigue and restlessness, depression and hopefulness, joy and sadness are all part of the weird make-up of being incurably sick. 

      On top of that there is the feeling of being scared all the time. It is like being on a roller coaster at that point when you are at the top of the hill looking down, just before you actually take-off.  Your heart races and your instincts tell you to flee. Some people want to throw up and others sit back and let the ride take them. I wanted to vomit. That was the all-day feeling I had. I was forever at the top of the roller coaster without the ability to come down.

      I started comparing the length of my life to everyone else’s. It seemed unbelievable that our 14-year-old cat Molly and my 83-year-old mother might both outlive me. Everyone that I thought I would follow into the next world, it seemed I would now lead them there instead. I was not happy. I was scared, scared, scared and terrified.

      Then there was the overwhelming desire to just give up. It couched itself in my brain in terms of: “why bother?” As in “why bother exercising because I’m going to be dead soon”. “Why bother getting the bunion on my right foot fixed when I’m going to be dead soon?” “Why bother wearing make-up, taking an interest in the news, calling friends, planning trips, buying anything or learning a language when I’m going to be dead soon?” Why not just sit here in this chair in my house looking out the window every day until I draw my last breath. Why not? Since “dead soon” seemed to be in a lot of my inner sentences, it was natural that I thought about funerals. The weird thing was in the last five years I had often dreamt about attending funerals. It was always the service for someone I knew well, like a good friend or relative. I would see myself sitting at the funeral and I would try to imagine my feelings on the day. I don’t know why my mind insisted on this practical exercise. Maybe it was emotional preparation for the real thing. But in all the years I dreamt these scenes, I never once saw my own burial. Now I saw it clearly. The flowers, the music, the guests and the hole in the ground next to the casket were all so real. I stood at the back of the crowd hovering like an apparition. I could see green lawn and white wooden chairs lined up in rows. I couldn’t see the guests’ faces clearly. I only recognized Alex, who sat in the first row with his back to me. He never turned around so I couldn’t see his expression. I don’t think I wanted to. In spite of the English garden sort of setting, the atmosphere was heavy and suffocating. I couldn’t hear any crying but there was a wearisome humidity that hung over everything. It wasn’t a frightening dream or even particularly sad. Instead it created a feeling of anticipation in me that I couldn’t quite understand.