Me Myself And I, Tripping

November

My two weeks of holiday start today.

Last year, these two weeks were marked by the loss of Emma. As such they were recovery days rather than holidays.

This year things are different, though strangely similar. Gaby’s again pregnant, over six months now. We’ve been lucky. The kid’s a kicker, and so far he’s passed all the hurdles that come with a pregnancy. His big sister, no doubt, is watching over him. It looks like, three months from now, I am going to be a dad. I’m elated, scared shitless, and anxiously awaiting the month of November.

Yesterday, we got news that Gaby’s dad is not doing well. As in: “this may well not last too long.” Cancer is an ugly son of a bitch. Treacherous. Vile. Merciless.

As my two weeks of holiday commence, we find ourselves hunting down cheap airplane tickets to Argentina. To be there and, perhaps, to say goodbye. And with every new belly kick, we are reminded that there is new life awaiting us. Coming back.

Come November.

Standard