I'm not a terrible person. I just think terrible things.

At the tail end of my personal year of completion, a relative fell ill. So ill, the immediate prognosis was that they may not make it.

And my first thought was, “I don’t have time for them to die right now.”

As though there is any convenient time for death. As though there would ever be a moment when it would hurt less. But before you condemn me, I want you to know I’m not a terrible person, I just think terrible things.

Look, we were fresh off vacation. My son started part-time preschool. We were getting adjusted to our new schedule. I was in the process of releasing my book. It was almost my birthday. Yes, I was worried about my birthday.

I thought about everyone needing time to grieve. They were going to need my support. I thought about not having enough strength to go around. Not enough me to go around. Not enough me to fill the void so that sadness could not dwell where happiness once was.

After a few minutes of thinking about all the ways that this death would affect what I needed to do, I felt sick. I was disgusted with myself. Someone's life was on the line, and I was dreading having to miss playdates. I was concerned about rescheduling appointments. Life was literally hanging in the balance, and I was preoccupied with keeping everyone on time and in pace, with our routine. They could by dying and I was dreading Tuesday. When did I get so cold? Was I really this selfish?

No, but my thoughts were. I was completely detached from any reality that existed beyond all the things I tell myself that I need to do and all the people I need to be. Wife, Mom, friend, sister, writer, supporter, chef, manager… I was living with no room for life to happen. Certainly no time for death. Every iota of my energy was already accounted for just to get through the day.

Of course, I didn’t want them to die. Not because it was inconvenient, but because I knew looking through my calendar, I had no time scheduled for sadness. I had no extra time to heal. I wasn’t being selfish, I was afraid. Afraid of what happens when the un-plannables happens. Focusing on the tangible ways it would impact me was easier to process than imagining what our lives would be like if they were gone. I wasn’t cold, I was hoping to be numb. I cared, but I was tired. Exhausted with no extra time to feel until the next month.

If they had passed, I would not have hesitated to do whatever needed to get us all through it. However, having those initial lifestyle concerns before even thinking about how it would affect me emotionally, forced me to acknowledge exactly how thin I was stretching myself.

We often think about rainy day funds to get us over the hump just in case we incur a financial burden. But what about saving for patience? Is living from sleep to sleep much different that living from paycheck to paycheck? Does is not cost the same amount to our sanity to lack the ability to approach emotional strain with grace when we are overextended? Are we not drastically underperforming in the wellness department if compassion feels like it costs too much?

It is still hard to fight my perceived obligation to prove my mastery of life by achieving outwardly visible accomplishments. I’m not a terrible person, but in that moment, I saw exactly how terrible my life could be if I didn’t stop existing beyond my peace of mind.

And as we celebrated the change in their prognosis weeks later, I felt an internal shift. They were coming back to life, and so was I.