I was on death’s doorstep in my dream. It stretched on endlessly—long, agonizing. I had “final talks” with friends and felt tortured by the fear of my body’s painful decline. I took a medication that frightened me, something like chemo—poisonous and healing all at once. With only worse and worser options ahead, I bobbed in a sea of twisted agony, no resolution in sight.
Now awake, I sit on the second-story veranda with a 10-to-2 view of the ocean. Joggers, bicyclists, and rental cars pass along the road below. I’m trying to reset my nervous system—like a chiropractic adjustment for the mind—gargling, swishing, spitting out the leftover dread.
And it worked. I snorkeled in clear turquoise water, watched a moray eel make a move on some fish, and played several rounds of rummy in the pool with waterproof cards. Since it’s our last night, I’ll stay up—reluctantly. At dinner, I was convinced to play more rounds of cards, even though my eyes were whispering, Please, let us close for the night.
Sorry for such a short post tonight. I’m hearing loud voices downstairs, meaning half of our group’s taxi has arrived. I’ll see you tomorrow!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 