Life is not like storybooks. It's pain and hard and unfair and there is no one there to come rescue you at the end.
My life would make a good book. A wonderful love story. Fuck it. I'd trade it all if I could just have the normal life back.
If we could just... erase his cancer. Take away the tumour- his Waterloo.
Life says to me many things. Life told me I was to die early. Life made it hell growing up, not a pleasant thing or one I'd wish to repeat. Life took so much that I loved away from me.
Wash took me out of all that. Wash brought me back to life. Took me out of my death office, took me away from my nights at the morgue or tracking down bones in the desert.
He brought me to light, and warmth, and love.
We had barely 2 months of marriage under us before the cancer started to eat away at the brain of my greatest love.
Just not enough time. Life's not fair. Never "enough" time.
We can't have biological children now. Maybe none at all. Life says to me that I am to miscarry the only child I will ever have with my husband.
Another whopper of unfairness.
I am my husband's caretaker. I'm his nurse. I'm his mother. I'm his friend. I'm his babysitter. I'm his cook. I'm his maid. I'm his laundress. I'm his company.
I'm forgetting who I am.