I went to sleep after lunch. It wasn’t a heavy lunch, just the effect of my seasonal inclination to hibernate. And I was cross when I was woken by the phone ringing and it was evidently a cold caller because they rang off when my answerphone kicked in. I’d been dreaming, though I don’t know what about and, as I gathered my befuddled thoughts together, I remembered a dream I had several times in the year or so after Russell died.
I’d never lived alone before. I lived with my mother until I married. I coped quite well, though, managed to order refills of gas and coal before I ran out, fed the animals, looked after myself and the house and kept outside matters going and I was mostly busy.
I dreamed I was having a heart attack. I was alone in the house but, not completely struck down, I phoned for an ambulance and then rang Weeza. I told her what was happening, asked her to phone her brothers to tell them and then gave her a list of other people to contact to cancel a whole string of appointments. The ambulance came and I was still cancelling things. When I woke up, I reflected that I’d been somewhat optimistic in the assumption that I’d still be able to focus on all these matters and deal with them; but I was a bit shaken too, that – in my dreams – I first of all thought about efficiency, not letting people down, reorganising events so that I wouldn’t be missed. I also remember my first words to Weeza: “Oh darling, sorry to bother you, but I’m not very well and I wonder if you could help me.”
Conclusion: I was an over-committed idiot who worried too much. Can’t really cut down on the worrying, but I’ve stopped the rest of it. And I like to break bad news gently. Not that I have any, I’m glad to say.