These days I've been staying up way too late. Sometimes I sew or work on writing. Mostly I read or occasionally watch TV.
Even when Vincent was alive I was a night owl. I'd put him and Theo to sleep, then sneak out to read, study, or sew, usually until the wee hours of the morning.
The day before Vincent went into surgery I stayed up the entire night sewing a bag. It seems so ironic that I can, at this moment, see it through the open closet door in our room, hanging next to articles of clothing I've owned for years. How can I still have the same clothes as last year, the same ipod, the same hardly-functioning cell phone, and not have my child? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?
Right now I'm sick again. Coughing, swollen glands, sore throat. I'm exhausted. But I just cannot get to bed. It's not that I can't sleep. Sleep usually comes pretty quickly, and when it doesn't, I play solitaire on the ipad until my eyes blur. Falling asleep isn't a huge issue for me. What is incredibly difficult is simply the act of getting to bed. I. just. can't. seem. to. do. it.
Perhaps what I am afraid of is that Vincent will somehow come back, but I'll be sleeping when he knocks at the door. Or perhaps I'm subconsciously dreading the advent of the next day, so I'm staying up super late to prevent it from coming? Maybe I don't want to have nightmares about his last moments. Or perhaps I enjoy staying up late and want to have some fun before the next day arrives with all its responsibilities. Maybe the real reason I find it so difficult to go to bed is a little bit of all of the above.
So I'm off. To bed. Before I cough up a lung.
Or maybe I'll watch The Amazing Race instead. Hmmm....