I couldn't sleep.
I don't sleep well anyway and there's a whole lot of nonsense going on at work. Which is sort of normal, I suppose. There's always b.s. but this is, I don't know, ADVANCED B.S. or something.
Most nights this week I've worked until midnightish so I can get certain things done. Last night I was so tired around 10:30pm that my head was bobbing and I just couldn't stay away.
I slept fitfully.
In a dream, a horrible nightmare, my mom called me and told me my dad had died.
I remember only her saying that he had died. I remember screaming and screaming in the dream...like an animal. Shrieking and weeping.
I woke up in a cold sweat. Terrified. Feeling unbelievably sad and alone.
My dad has cancer. He's doing well, but he still has cancer.
Last time I saw him I was struck at how, well, old he looked. I remember my dad being my age. I guess he was twenty-five when I was born, almost twenty-six. I was only six years old when he was the age I am right now.
Last time I saw him he was sitting in his little chair by his swimming pool, watching my son and daughter intently. He has gray in his beard and wrinkles around his eyes. He laughed as he watched them, trying so hard to snap the perfect picture of them jumping off the diving board.
Not that he's old now. He's not, not really.
But he's not 31. Not anymore.
My dad getting older makes me so aware of the fact that I'm getting older. That I've still not figured anything out and I'm still a huge mess. That I have no idea what I'm going to be when I grow up.
That even though I'm a grown woman, I still need my dad to be around.