Urg

More nightmares. Two nights ago, I was kidnapped from my childhood church and then a terrorist blew the front off with a suitcase bomb. Last night, I was on the rescue team to save Sir Robert F. Scott from dying on the Antarctic expedition. We did manage to find him and bring him back to the base, but he died anyway. On Christmas. But first, he made us sing "Silver Bells" with him, which he joined in with a wavering voice and then died in the middle, leaving us to finish the song with voices choked with tears. It was like a bad Hallmark melodrama. Woke up near tears anyway.

Sick husband and nightmares do not make for restful nights. I feel kind of woozy. Attempting tea therapy. Earl Grey, don't fail me now.