I haven’t cried yet. Outwardly, I seem to be coping well, despite lost jobs and an uncertain future. But I’ve had the same dream several times:

I’m in the car, the driver’s seat. My wife is outside my window, talking to me through the glass. I am sick and I’m going to drive myself to the hospital.

We’re arranging where I should leave the car by the hospital so she can find it once I’ve been admitted.

We’re trying not to think about the fact that this might be the last time we see each other, because I’m about to drive myself away, to a place where I may die alone.