I had an extremely upsetting dream last night

that started my day pretty off-key, but I couldn’t quite recall the exact details. I am one of those people that often can’t remember my dreams until later on in the day, but I could feel the ominous nature of this dream, and I knew the key players.

At lunchtime over a fish sandwich, the dream’s puzzle pieces suddenly slammed together, and I had a lump in my throat the rest of the day.

In the dream I was begging someone for forgiveness, but I was like a ghost in the room. They couldn’t hear me. A few others could, so I asked them if they knew the person’s address so I could write them a letter telling them how I sorry I was.

They couldn’t agree on the right address.

It’s very funny how I approach my “big bad cancer attitude” now, as opposed to when I started my very first blog. I think, at the time, I took pride in the fact that I gave people such a hard time during my illness. I thought it made me seem tough, and strong, and forced people to hate me instead of pity me.

I would have rather people hated me than pitied me.

Now, 3 days from 32, I can’t un-hear my own voice cutting people down, belittling them, trying so hard to make them feel as small and helpless as I felt.

Now, 3 days from 32, I understand that apologies can smooth the edges out a bit, but it’ll never be perfect. You can’t unring any bells.

Now, 3 days from 32, you know that you can’t unsay something you said, whether you were desperate and angry and sick-to-death or not. Those words came from you and they lived somewhere inside of you, just like the cancer, and maybe they’re still there.

What if you have a recurrence of those words?

And it’s a heavy load to carry. Living with the knowledge that you once spewed venom at someone you loved is half of that burden. The other half is knowing that somewhere out there, they remember.

And when you said that vile thing, you let someone see the absolute worst of you, and they can’t unsee it, just as much as you can’t undo it.

They’ve had to live with your meanest words.

And, actually, if that burden was a pie chart, there’d be a tiny slice representing your sneaking suspicion that at least one or two of those people were never>>WILL<<never be able to forgive you.

And you can’t blame them.

And as you write, you realize you changed voices, because it was easier to say “you” instead of “I”.

“You” did this, “you” did that. “You” hurt him, “you” hurt her…

But I hurt him, and I hurt her, and I hurt the rest.

I will always be sorry, and I will also carry the burden. I made the hospital bed, and I’ll sleep in it, and I won’t complain.

It might just haunt my dreams and spoil a few fish sandwiches.