I'm crying as I write this.
The world—MY world—feels like it's crumbling all around me.
First, my brother-in-law Elliott is heartbroken because he just got the news that his wife Kate, my bestest and dearest friend in all the world, has passed on.
Did I say "passed on"? I meant passed around.
By the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Add to that, my beloved husband of seventy-five years, Christian, is in the hospital. It's serious. Our family physician, Dr. Bombay, told me to do what I can to comfort him.
"I'll do what I can to keep him alive for as long as I can," he says, sympathetically, "or at least long enough to pay what he owes me."
So I go into Christian's room and see him laying in his hospital bed attached to things that flash or drip or beep.
He looks so... human.
"How are you feeling, dear?" I ask him, putting on a smile and trying to sound chipper.
"Not so good," he tells me, never one to lie or be dishonest or another word that means the same thing.
"The doctor says he's hopeful," I say.
"Nothing wrong with hoping," Christian answers.
Christian pauses, thinking thoughtful thoughts.
"Ana?" he says, finally.
"Yes, dear?"
"I've decided. If and when I die, I want you to marry my brother Elliott."
I gasp.
"B-b-b-but Christian," I sputter, "I thought you HATED your brother?"
Christian grins devilishly.
"I do," he says.