Dreaming

Sun shines and we’re sitting outside, sipping a margarita each and laughing. The tequila goes to my head, I’ve not drunk anything for months. Beside me, my daughter plays on the grass, just toddling and happy. She’s younger here and so am I. We don’t know what is ahead of us and in this moment, we are happy. My grandmother looks at me and smiles.

A snippet of memory, dredged up.

It changes.

A birthday party. Laughter, good food, good company.

I turn and look at my grandmother, there again.

But, you’re dead. You can’t be here.

She smiles at me and disappears. Crying, I wake up.

***

I’m standing under the shower. It’s late afternoon and the air is chilling down. My shoulder is throbbing and my ribs are dislocated. Water streams down my body while I hug myself, desperate to hold my joints together for a little longer. The pain makes me retch.

I’d been reading a Dick Francis novel before deciding more painkillers and a shower were a good idea.

It’s funny the things that I remember from my childhood.

Dick Francis novels and late afternoon showers at my grandmothers were a normal Sunday routine. Despite my partner peeling potatoes in the kitchen and the sounds of my children playing, I am 13 again,  standing under the warm water at my grandmothers, taking advantage of her running water – something we don’t have at home.

A sharp squeal brings me back to the present, a present of pain and nausea and screeching children.

The water washes away tears.

***

They told me this would get better. Easier.

Like everything else it seems though, it doesn’t get easier, it just gets different. It only takes something very small to send me back to that world of pain, where my heart aches and I am broken.

I breathe and I smile and I live.

But it’s not easier, it’s just different.