Oh my little blog, how I am neglecting you.
I am so anxious right now, so anxious that I am almost wordless.
We are waiting to hopefully find some answers to Keith's health and after that, perhaps- perhaps- some forward movement on the adoption, which is always put aside, put away.
Then I feel guilty for worrying about the adoption and not Keith's health, but the adoption is just the dream of someone; Keith really is someone. It's easier to be anxious about losing the dream.
I dreamed. In the dream, my dog Lynn and another small dog got run over. I heard them cry out and then I saw their small, broken bodies on the side of the road.
The small dog was crushed and broken open, blood smeared, and yet still alive and trying to make a sound. His eyes were roaming around anxiously, as if he felt guilty for getting run over and he was trying to apologize for his condition.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. I bent over Lynn, who was unmarked but perfectly still, and put my hand on the little dog's head and whispered to him.
I desperately wanted to check on Lynn, but I couldn't leave the little dog alone in his pain, I couldn't leave him alone to die; it was so cruel that he still lived at all.
And the whole time that I'm whispering to the little dog and worrying about Lynn, I'm saying in this low, urgent monotone, in my mind, over and over again, "Jesus, I'm begging You. I'm begging You, Jesus. I'm begging You."
It was so instinctive that I was hardly aware of this constantly stream of words until I woke and, oh my goodness, I was begging Him. It was so raw, without any disguise.
But for what? There's so much that I couldn't even say what. I can't pick one thing out.
It's possible that the doctor will call and because of what he says, I will eventually go into the spare room and dismantle all that furniture and give it away to some other woman who can't afford it, maybe. Who needs it.
Because my entire life would just have turned upside down, unrecognizeable.
Or he could call and all that happens is relief. My life will change, but it will be manageable. And I will feel silly for ever worrying about the worst, the unthinkable.
Because of course, that could never happen. That could never be real.
In the meantime, surface life goes on. I make dinner. I pay the bills, mostly on time. I write. I write a lot.
But on the inside, I'm a livid bruise, something it would hurt just to look at, something even I wince away from.