All year I’ve harbored a certifiable fear that I would drop dead, the same as my husband did, when he was the same age. Or get a diagnosis.
I’m not sure which came first, the much better health insurance plan or the tinge of paranoia that came before each overdue test and the distracted agony that presented itself while waiting for the results.
Stress test and EKG (check). That was a big one given what happened to Mark.
It’s been somewhat of a countdown, a slow race to the end of the year, but I only have about 24 hours to go until the New Year rings in my birthday. Then I can put it all behind me, much like a baseball player slides into home base.
Only I doubt my teenage daughters will cheer, bless their little souls.
But I do have a fan club, or a panel of experts, who will be happy to celebrate the milestone. My mother, Shirley; my sister, Wendy; and my step-father, George, a.k.a. my rock, paper and scissors who never say, “Shoo!”
(The story doesn’t end here….)
Neither has my doctor or this imaginary one, the one who sometimes torments me in my dreams at night.
I can tell he’d love to stick that needle right up my nose or really, probably, straight into my a*s for being such a pain sometimes. Look at his expression! It’s saying, “Come on, Laura. Time to get a taste of your own medicine!”
Time is now almost on my side. That’s one of the reasons I’m not going out tonight. The party’s at my cute new house and for the first time in six years, I’ll be able to fully celebrate having a “Happy Birthday.” I may even sing along, through stuffed up head, after waking up with a cold today.