Exucse, if you noticed, my lack of writing in the last few weeks.
I woke up on New Year’s Day absolutely convinced that this would be the year I died. As I became less ill, I remained convinced that this would be a terrible year. And I have been proved right. I believed that January and the hospitalisations were to be the worst moments of the year, at least as far as myself goes. I was so, so wrong.
August, for me, marked the death of two grandparents. My granddad died, followed closely by one of my grandmothers, in Jamaica. That is to say, both my dad’s parents died within two weeks of each other. The family is still reeling, deeply shocked, horribly saddened. I have set my grief aside to be strong for my dad.
Frivolously, I saw September in with a drinking spate, convinced this month must be better (and so it must). But my celebrations culminated in my falling down a flight of concrete stairs earlier this week. For two seconds as I fell, I knew I was going to die.
I’m not dead.
But it’s time to think carefully about what I want from my life.
It’s time to wonder, how I can make it count.