“I’ve had this recurring dream in which we are on vacation and he leaves me – just walks away,” I tell my therapist.  “I wake up in a panic, feeling abandoned.”

“Oh dear,” she says.  “I wonder if these dreams would change if he started looking after himself?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, relieved.  These are not premonition dreams, but a projection of my fears about his health, I happily conclude.

Now, as he sits across town in the cardiac unit awaiting surgery, and I, in my usual state of disability, am confined to home, I wonder.  Were the dreams warnings?  I certainly dreamt of being in a wheelchair long before it happened.

Then the dream shifts:  We are going in different directions, my husband, my children, and I; all planning separate vacations.  I am feeling uncertain, cutoff, when Ric says:  “Come with me; I’m going to Cornwall”.  Cornwall!  I’ve always wanted to go there – the place where Daphne du Maurier penned the novels that so gripped me in adolescence.  “Yes!” I say and my heart soars.

Knowing that my husband is in hospital, receiving expert care, I feel a new glimmer of hope.  If all goes well, maybe we will be able to reestablish that bucket list that was set aside, seemingly, so long ago.