On those odd occasions when some part of me is not thinking about me dying, I find that I’m thinking about you dying. It’s like another level of growing up in a terrible video game, and I don’t want to be this creature but… what if you do die? Which is worse? I go and then the children are left motherless, or you go and a chunk of me dies with you and they will be left fatherless and half-motherless?
So now I am weighing up the idea of leaving or being left; hypothetically choosing between the idea of nothingness and a lifetime of picking up the pieces. Will I be brave enough? Am I up to the task? If I am already worrying about it then how can I possibly be equipped to face it?
And there are days when I admit I think I will be OK. I have a tear/glint in my eye. I can handle it; I am Super Mario boinking across the screen defeating the mushrooms of fear and uncertainty. I think about what I would wear at your funeral (expensive, because when else?) and where I would live. Then there are the days when I know I am not up to the job of life after you – I am no heroic Rio Ferdinand – and I am ashamed.