Last night, for the 4rth time, just since 2020 began, my s.o. was admitted into the hospital. I liken this to Russian roulette. Each time, he might die. Then he doesn't. I wait for the chamber with the live bullet and wonder how many empty chambers are left. The threat of loss. The threat. Over and over and over.

When I was 11, I got a new baby sister. But she kept having to go back to the hospital . . . over and over and over . . . because of life-threatening seizures. Then, just before her 1rst birthday, my parents came home from visiting her and said she was gone. I would dream she was in her jumping chair in the kitchen and wake up happy for one moment. Then I would remember that she wouldn't be.

I'm sick of feeling threatened. And now we're all living inside this state of threat from that bat-germ. I'm sick of threat.

I'm sick of bracing for loss. I'm sick almost to the core of my soul. I see no end to it now.

Today I had zero interest in taking care of anything that needs attending to. Like piles of unopened mail . . . sink full of dirty dishes. Just left.

I don't like being here alone. I don't have him here to care for. But I'm not really free to go start doing something else.

I'm making things worse by wasting hour after hour, mulling over how sick of everything I am.

People in worse situations make the best of things. I better stop this wallowing.