Cliff has been really, really sick for a couple of days. Sick to the point of dry-heaving and groaning, so sick he was unable to eat.
He's pretty much over it as much as I can tell with him sleeping like a baby in the other room. He's slept all night for the first time in three days. The doctor and I think perhaps it's gallstones. The results of the CT scan should tell us whether we're right.
Cliff isn't that sick very often, but when he is, it's a wakeup call for me, a reminder to appreciate him. Did you know that the very cows that make me smile and laugh all the time are a burden when Cliff isn't 100%? The chickens I normally enjoy choring after aren't fun any more. The fruit trees I check so often in spring, hoping for a large harvest, mean nothing to me, and I couldn't care less about the garden. I was hopelessly depressed.
I think about friends and relatives who have lost a husband or other close family member: They have had to deal with this feeling on a permanent basis and somehow move on, perhaps taking a new path in a different direction, finding joy in life despite their losses. For the most part, they do, even as they grieve.
I salute those people.