As I already mentioned, my father-in-law is in the hospital. He had a heart attack.
Fortunately, he’s doing very well and is expected to make a full recovery. He has to have a small procedure on Thursday and should be home by the end of the week.
Thank you all for your well-wishes and prayers.
His heart attack has got me thinking about death, even more than usual. And if it’s okay with God, I’d like to put forth a formal request to avoid death if at all possible. If that’s not possible, I’d humbly request to go out in a completely unexpected blaze of pain-free glory at the age of 85.
I’d also request that my husband be with me when I die. Not that I want him to die, mind you. But I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t be able to go on without me.
I’m THAT awesome at the whole wife thing — if you discount my sucky homemaking skills, my utter disregard for Virginia Slims Man’s feelings and my complete lack of libido.
I don’t know if you can tell from my posts, but I’m incredibly neurotic. I’ve mentioned that I’ve been in therapy for OCD before, but I’m also a hypochondriac and I really just worry a lot. I worry about things that you probably haven’t ever even thought of before.
I’ve already mentioned my fear of getting rabies from the dust of decomposing animals (You thought I was kidding, didn’t you?) and my fear of aluminum cans, but I’m also afraid of brain-eating amoeba and will not allow my children to swim in a lake. My sons will probably never go away to summer camp because I’ll worry about the amoeba. I’m not too fond of the boys swimming in swimming pools, either.
Can I be honest with you? I don’t even like it when they bathe. A while back, a couple of people got the brain-eating amoeba from using their Neti-Pots without first boiling their water, so now I’m convinced my kids are going to snort bathwater up their noses and get the amoeba.
Can I be even more honest with you? Since I read that story about the Neti-Pot, I haven’t put my face under the shower without first holding my nose. I’ve been holding my nose in the shower for three months.
Sweet Peter Paul and Mary, I might be crazy.
I worry that one day I’m going to eat a peanut and have an allergic reaction even though I’ve been eating peanuts my entire life without any sort of problem.
When I order food at a restaurant, I always try to pick the items that I think are the least likely to poison me.
I worry about getting hantavirus from rodents and often tell The Good One that Satan will be shoveling snow in Hell before I let him have a rodent for a pet.
I worry about simple bumps on the head being fatal. I worry that when my kids grow up and go off to college, they’ll drink so much alcohol that they’ll die from alcohol poisoning. I plan to scare the actual crap out of them by showing them stories of young adults who die from drugs and alcohol.
Me: This is what will happen if you drink too much alcohol. Your brain will drown and you will die.
The Good One: I think I just pooped my pants.
Me: My job is done.
I worry that The Good One is going to have a cardiac event while playing soccer. I worry that every pain I feel in my legs is from a blood clot. I worry that The Beast is going to choke at school and I won’t be there to save him. I worry that I’m going to have an aneurysm when I’m at home alone with The Beast and that he’ll be by himself and won’t know what to do.
I worry about getting breast cancer. I worry that people are lurking in the grocery stores and poisoning the food.
I worry about carbon monoxide poisoning and I travel with a detector. If I forget to bring my detector with me, I make Virginia Slims Man stop at a store on the road so I can buy one. I currently own 7 carbon monoxide detectors.
VSM is a saint for staying married to me.
I worry about getting MRSA from the equipment at the gym. I like to think that the guys at the gym are watching me because I’m hot, but really they’re just watching me soak the treadmill with antibacterial wipes to the point that it’s nearly short-circuiting from the wetness.
I hate to fly. I haven’t flown in years. I’d like to go to Europe but I’d have to catch a ride on a shipping barge to get there.
I really don’t know what the point of this post is. And I almost hate sharing this, because in addition to this far-from-complete list of things that I’m afraid of, I’m also afraid of becoming a victim of irony.
I don’t know when I became so borderline nuts. (You’re thinking, The borderline ship sailed long ago.) I think it was after we adopted The Good One, but I’m honestly not sure. My family would probably tell you that I’ve always been nuts, but I don’t remember being so consumed with fears when I was younger.
I’ve been given medication but I’m afraid to take it. (Surprise!)
I spend a good portion of my life trying to avoid death. But considering my father-in-law is an incredibly healthy, active 75-year-old man who had a heart attack, I’m thinking we’re all going to die anyway.
So maybe I’ll try to let go of some of my fears. Maybe I’ll eat out of a can that has a small dent. Maybe I’ll eat peanuts without having Benadryl ready to go just in case my throat swells shut. Maybe I’ll stick my head fully under the shower water again.
If I get the amoeba, I’m going to be so peeved.