I think Uncle Jack may die soon. And by admitting it I don't want to create a self fulfilling prophecy. Childish really, like stepping on a crack or splitting a pole. But he may die and I've got to get ready.
It happened all too quickly. One minute we were celebrating successful treatment, the next we're sitting by the bed, the tubes hanging out the side of his mouth, his hands curled at his sides, eyelids partially open.
So I have to get ready– hope for the best and prepare for the worst – and hate myself for writing about it.