The text came Sunday morning. The tears, Monday afternoon.
My great-aunt was hospitalized in Birmingham with COVID-19. And as my mind does with everything else, it jumped to the next logical conclusion. So I was sad, but fine. Until I started reading tweets about people dropping loved ones at hospitals and never seeing them alive again.
Then, I openly wept at my desk. And again, writing this just now.
It seems… aloof… to say I spent the rest of the week working, exchanging some mildly flirty messages, watching (and re-watching) The Gentlemen, letting my dishes pile up, and writing my latest fanfic, but that’s what I did. I cut back on the booze because drinking to cope instead of to indulge makes the liquor taste bad. And waking up slightly dehydrated in a pandemic where “headache” is a symptom…
Bad idea. And not in a fun way.
I did manage to have a sober conversation with my mother about preparing for the worst. She’s drawn up Power of Attorney papers and is thinking through her final wishes.
I debated writing this post. It’s been years since I laid myself bare in a public setting. And I’m terrible at accepting sympathy, so none of the comforting things people say in the midst of tragedy do anything for me. For my sake, just send whatever you’d say to me as a prayer to your preferred deity.
There are no cheerful notes to end on, so I won’t.