I had a very sad and scary dream, but first, the rats really are amazing. Tom said they always seem to know when I’m getting up. I know they hear well, but I’m not sure how they can hear over the loud air cleaner that’s right by their cage. But somehow they know when I’m getting up. Tom said he went out to the kitchen. No rats. But then he went out again and they were all lined up at the door. He didn’t even know that I was up yet. They must hear me going into the bathroom. Or maybe me turning off the sound machine.

So the dream. Tom died of cancer. It was a terrifying and incredibly depressing dream. Even though I’ve had a few dreams of him dying before and nothing bad happened, and even though I haven’t been having that many dream premonitions lately, these dreams always scare the shit out of me.

In the dream, when we knew there was no way he was going to survive, he was telling me that I would live on even though there would be rough spots. I went to live with Miss Perfect of all people.

He didn’t become weak and bedridden in the end like most terminally ill cancer patients. He was talking to Mary and a few others when I said goodnight and went to my room, already moved in with Mary. When I got up the next day Mary told me he had died in the night. Thinking nothing of why I hadn’t been woken up, the pain of knowing that last night was the last time I’d ever see him was so great that it was physical.

After being told that he died, Mary and someone else (Dave?) were trying to fix a leak under the kitchen sink. Some time passed and then I reentered the kitchen and asked if the leak was fixed yet. Mary shook her head and I said that if Tom were still alive he could have fixed it, then burst into tears with the pain and anguish of my terrible loss and the knowledge and reality of living the rest of my life without him.

God, even just remembering and writing this dream brings tears to my eyes! I told Tom about it and he assured me he was fine and that I could have dreamed about a pipe that’s going to leak since my dreams are twisted like that at times.

I said that the extreme anxiety I was going through was the ultimate torture, but if there were any God out there that really wanted to torture me, taking Tom would be the way to do it. The only difference is that I wouldn’t live 2+ years to suffer the effects of it like I did with the anxiety. I would be scared shitless at the thought of having to kill myself, but my depression would no doubt override that fear and give me the strength to end it all, hopefully without botching it up and hopefully without much additional suffering along the way either. It isn’t just that I wouldn’t want to live without him but I couldn’t. Even if there was enough money to sustain me and this place, which there wouldn’t be, how the hell would I go to doctors or grocery stores? I’m a million miles from bus stops. The fares would also be outrageous. Come to think of it, I so seldom see any buses around here. I would think there would be, but maybe there really isn’t any public transportation around here other than taxis and Uber, and that costs a hell of a lot more than buses.

I know he’s going to die someday. We just don’t know when. It’s inevitable, though, and inevitable that I take my life. I just hope we can go together. Like right before we knew he’d be getting too out of it to go with me.

Whether he dies slowly or suddenly, there will be no living to suffer the untold depression that would follow, trying to figure out how I could possibly survive, or worrying what those I left behind might think. I’m out of here when that day comes unless I’m surprised with going first.

I’d like to think that if I didn’t die suddenly, it’d be in a hospital surrounded by family, friends and caring hospital staff. But that’s just a fantasy. I still say that Tom’s not only going to go first and that I’m going with him, but if I didn’t, it’s unlikely I’d have any other friends or family that would care enough to be by my side, and I wouldn’t count on the staff to be all that “caring.” They’d just be doing their job. Not caring.

So off I’ll go at my own hand, with or without Tom at my side, hoping that self-killers supposedly rotting in hell is just a myth created to try to deter suicide. Instead, I hope there’s either no afterlife or one no worse than this one.

That fucking car has been in and out three times in the five hours I’ve been up. The return of the rain hasn’t put a damper on its activity. So much for hoping it didn’t live here or that someone complained.