When present tense gets strangled in the woes, made of our future foe scenarios

Today Jay comes home.  This is a profoundly good thing.

Tomorrow he starts the Regorafenib.  Tuesday he has a CT scan, so we have a baseline against which to measure the success of the new drug.  These are both necessary things.

I'm beginning to feel my own version of Jay's The Fear.  In my case, it's a skidding, sliding panic that everything is about to fall down around us.  I'm constantly on the verge of tears. If my life permitted it, I'd be living in a xanax haze to keep the excruciating anxiety at bay.

But life needs to be lived, and things need to be done, so I persevere.

Since the day I met Jay, the work that I've done in my head has been a process of letting go of my own expectations about everything, about things mundane and profound.  Let go, let go let go.

Now I'm finding that I need to find ways to let go of the most basic expectations of this life - that he will be here and healthy and happy on any given day, that I will have the partner who I love so dearly, that anything will be the same.

I came into this relationship as aware as anyone could be of what the consequences of the choice to be here were.  I knew to the core of my being that this love that is so dear to my heart might not have much of a future. I knew that whatever time we have together is worth the cost of the pain at the end.

I knew all these things, I felt them all deeply.  I know all these things, and feel them all deeply.

But now we're down to the wire, and I am afraid.

Let go, let go, let go.