The next time I say there’s nothing going on, please, feel free to smack me…

Woody Allen might have said that if you want to make God laugh you should tell Him your plans; it is attributed to him, anyway, but I’m sure many more people have thought or said something similar over the course of history.  Why no one said it to ME is beyond me.  It wasn’t so much my “plans” as my statement that nothing much was happening around here…someone should have reminded me of the immense luck attached to such a lack of upheaval…

This week…oh, this week…

Between relatives in the hospital and an impromptu visit we had to make (for what was vertigo and a headache and turned out to require an emergency MRI,) I just feel like going back to the day when I said all was quiet, right before I said all was quiet and then kick myself just as I’m about to write “all is quiet” in order to make the statement a falsehood.

Dada scared the crap out of me.  Why men don’t complain with as much gusto as they should when it is warranted is beyond me.  Let them have a garden-variety common cold and they act like Wile E. Coyote when the Acme safe is dropped on him, but if they are REALLY sick they drag their feet and act like it’s a minor complaint.

This is the horrible part of isolation.  TGG was manning the fort at home, just in case the school needed us.  Dada was in the MRI machine.  I was in the waiting room and I felt like I was alone in the middle of the Gobi Desert.  The thing is that when things go wrong, there’s usually two of us to back each other up…this time, by necessity, it was just Dada in the MRI machine, and just me in the waiting room.  When I went for my mammogram and was the only person there without a “second,” I didn’t feel anywhere near as lonely as I felt today.  I cannot even begin to imagine how Dada was feeling inside that tube…

Well…he later admitted he almost fell asleep.  I can’t blame him.  He looked tired and worried.  I was tired, worried, and had my blasted overactive imagination going full throttle.

I sketched so many scenarios this morning.  Dada could tell I was thinking about difficult possibilities and he said “why are you worrying?”  If what the test says is less than I am imagining, I will have already win the jackpot, Husband.  He said that’s what I always do, and I have to agree…if I let my mind travel down the roads I am most afraid of, anything else will seem like a piece of cake.

We waited together.  We talked about how, in our nearly thirteen years of marriage, we’ve only been to the ER twice with him as the patient.  Those two instances are almost thirteen years to the day apart from each other.  We saw younger couples, worried and still texting, drinking sodas and eating potato chips.  We saw older couples walking together with the aid of a nurse, a walker, a cane.  We saw the older couple who sat with us in the Results Pending Room and reminded us of ourselves, but older.  “They didn’t take any blood,” he said.  “Yes, they did,” replied his wife in a patient tone.  “Look, they tried here (pointed to his arm) and couldn’t.”  “They took it from the wrist!,” she said loudly.  “Huh?,” he replied.  “The wrist!  She got it from the wrist!”  “They didn’t take any blood!  And I think I hurt my wrist!,” he replied.

By the time the lovely young doctor came in and told us that Dada is fine, but is working too much, stressing too much, not complaining enough, we were emotionally drained.  I cannot put into words the relief, and I couldn’t physically express it in a way that would tell the world I was really, really glad that my beloved husband is not in any danger, mortal or trivial.  The doctor sat on the arm of the chair and said “the only thing in the MRI was a lesion that we don’t see often.  It’s called a hemangioma.  It’s on the skull.  The radiologist isn’t concerned, but we’ll follow up with your Primary Care Physician.”

Dada and I looked at each other and smiled.  We nodded, thanked the lovely young doctor (oh, so young!) and got released and walked out to get our car.  Once inside the safety of the vehicle, we looked at each other and smiled.  I was born with a hemangioma on my right temple; it is a honking red spot that announces my moods and my blood pressure to everyone who cares to pay attention to the signs.  It has been the bane of my existence since the day I was born, and here is my husband, with the same darned thing on the surface of his skull…

“We are cosmically connected, woman,” my handsome husband said.  This is something we have discussed at length many times before.  This is something we are convinced of through and through.  I agreed, nodding and sighing with relief.  “Did you bury me?,” he asked.  “No, I cremated you.  But not before we moved to a much smaller place and I took care of you through your illness.  Oh, you hung in there for a long time.  J was crushed that you weren’t around.  It was quite depressing.”  He smiled.  “And I’m fine,” he said.  J, who knew nothing about our trip to the hospital, was curiously in tune with something not quite being as it usually is…he was anxious until I let him come into our room to see that Dada was there, and resting…

Nope…not complaining about things being quiet.  In fact, I’m going to make sure I slam a pot or pan against the floor from time to time to shake myself out of that way of thinking.  Chaos is good…in small amounts.

Today, well, I’m just glad that the man I love is healthy…and an admitted workaholic…and alive…and annoying…and here.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “The next time I say there’s nothing going on, please, feel free to smack me…

    • I am glad beyond words. And, trust me, if I have to tackle him and sit on him (or make J sit on him!,) he WILL start resting more and stressing less… Thanks for your words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s