For the past three nights, I’ve been making phone calls and sending emails to anyone I can think of who would want to know about Liz’s condition. Or talking with friends who already know about who else should know and how to track them down. Every time I hang up the phone or hit the ‘Send’ button, the same thought goes through my head:
“Did that conversation with her father really take place? What if I dreamt it…and now I’m going around calling or writing to people and telling them this horrible, sad story that isn’t true? I’m telling people that there isn’t much time, but Liz is going to get better and live a long life, and everyone will be mad at me for scaring them.”
Being a relatively logical creature, I see this for what it is. I don’t want to believe that this is real, that this is actually happening. So part of my brain, which cannot accept this, is telling me that it isn’t true. How can it be true? 23-year-olds do not get incurable brain tumors. My friends do not get incurable brain tumors. It doesn’t make sense. It’s preposterous. Obviously, I dreamt it.
If only.
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