Since Andrew and I made the decision to take this opportunity in Vietnam, my paranoid fantasies have been on the rise. The closer we get to departure, the more intense they seem to become. I have, at times, lived literally in fear that "something" was going to happen. Imminently.
The kids or Andrew would get hurt. The kids would disappear. Andrew would be killed in a car wreck or shot at school by some student lost in the struggle of end-of-the-year test scores. My cancer would come back. One of our mothers would be diagnosed with some fatal illness.
It wasn't until last week, when both of our children were away - Asher at sleepaway camp and Elia at a friend's house for the week, that Andrew confessed he has been having the same ill thoughts. What a relief to not be the only one. Strangely, my fears eased with both kids away, while Andrew's spiked to the point of extreme discomfort. It helped to talk about it.
Let me say that again. It helped to talk about it.
Talk about it. Whatever it is, talk about it.
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