Life's too short

Five months ago I received a call very late to say my father had died. He had had a massive heart attack in Waitrose car park. Three days later I was admitted to hospital at 33 weeks pregnant praying my scar would not rupture and that both baby & I would make it home. We did. When it seems as though a pack of cards are falling all around you, you start to question what is important. Small things that would make you mad suddenly seem irrelevant and you ask questions of yourself that you may never have asked. I have spent the past five months wondering if my Dad was happy, did he get to do the things that he wanted to do? I cannot answer these questions because Dad & I for the past seven years only wrote at Christmas. This was an amicable unspoken agreement after many years of not really knowing each other. I can only hope that he was happy and that he did get to do the things he had wanted.

So this morning when I got cross that my husband was still asleep in bed at 9.30 and I was the one that got up in the night to feed our baby (not a job he physically could actually do), and he no longer got up at 4.30am every weekday to go to work, I stopped getting mad and thought.....Life's too short.