Debated for a while today whether or not I'd write about this, but then talked myself into it, if only to fashion a procrastinatory measure that keeps me from addressing the five-item to-do list on my desk here at work.
This morning I went to the doctor for a follow-up visit, in part to talk about test results from an MRI I had a couple weeks ago. My doctor recommended the MRI because of my father's death--as a relatively young man, from a brain aneurysm he didn't know he had. The MRI itself was a new (and unwelcome) experience for me, a here's-what-it-feels-like-to-be-shoved-in-a-coffin-for-forty-five-minutes revelation, but with more clanky sound effects than the dead usually have to endure. But whatever. I had the test and pushed it to the back of my mind, to be left aside until today's follow-up.
On the drive though, I--of course, being an imaginative sort--let my mind wander a bit into what-if territory. "So, Whining Stranger, odds are if there was anything really irregular she'd have called you right away, but on the other hand, she may have needed a couple weeks to think of how to let you know that you're in grave danger, that there's an aneurysm in your head, waiting to send you careening toward an early exit." Now, you might think that an anxiety sufferer like me would be sent into pre-emptive convulsions over traveling down such a hypothetical path. (Remember that scene in Hannah and Her Sisters, when Woody Allen sits waiting for test results, convinced that he's about to learn he has an inoperable brain tumor...?) Oddly enough, though, I didn't feel that expected tightness in the chest or nausea in the belly. Instead, mostly calm. A settled searching through the "These are the things I'd do" if I were staring eye to eye with the Fella in the Brite Nitegown.
I'd probably want to quit teaching. (Sorry, kids, but I hope you understand.)
I'd commit myself to writing more. Maybe dash off two or three more inconsequential stories in my remaining days.
I'd make sure that the people I love know how much I love them.
I'd eat sushi every day damn day, and let the dog eat steak.
As it turns out though, everything's OK in my head. (Well, on the aneurysm front, anyway-- I'm still an anxious cat, but that's not terminal.)
And rather than spend the morning thinking about final wishes, I cruised home with the windows down, singing "Louie, Louie" loudly with the stereo. And my partner was waiting with a hug when I arrived.
Shoo, Grim Reaper. I got things to do.
3 comments:
I had a MRI a few years back at the height of my migraines. I was fine - the actual procedure was nothing to me. My parents were of course, basket cases. I'm fine - physically - I can't claim anything else. ;)
It's very interesting, the What Would You Do question. Why write more? To get it out, or to get it published?
The question makes me sadder to think about then it used to - I'd want to spend as much time with my daughter as possible, and the thought that i might not be around...oh, my. Awful.
I think I'd write more to leave some kind of tangible evidence of my existence behind. It's sheer narcissism, but narcissism is a potent force.
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