Sunday Scribblings: My Mystery

I ascribe to the Woody Allen School of Hypochondria; in fact, I am currently enrolled in the Master's program. Ever since having my children, I take special interest in anything that could possibly be described as a symptom or ailment. At the Woody Allen School, we don't need a library; we have Google and the Merck Manual to meet all of our research needs.

Which brings me to my mystery: the mystery of tomorrow. Recently diagnosed with Benign Fasciculations (y'know how your eye sometimes twitches? well, these are twitches that occur all over the body--can be intermittent, can be constant), I am diligent in worrying about the future. Twitches are one thing, but if they are symptoms of a terrible, neuromuscular wasting disease--well, that's a whole different ballgame.

This is what comes to mind, in my dusty whirlwind of panic: If something were to happen to me, who would come into my house and clean it out? Who would sort through my piles, figure out which papers are disposable and which ones are "records?" Who would know to print all of the photos off of the harddrive and paste them in albums for the boys? Who would realize that the Belleek china was good stuff, not just 50 cent yard sale junk?

All just fancy costuming for the Big Question: Who would take care of my children?

I have a good husband, an excellent one. I do not say, "I'm lucky because he gives the boys baths, brushes their teeth, reads them stories." Like Leah Remini recently said in an article (she was talking about husbands being given "points" for being faithful or for being good fathers), "That would be like saying, 'Oh, I got lucky! I got a house with a bathroom and functional plumbing!'" My husband is an amazing father, but there is a balance between us--a softness that he has when I am strict, a hardness that he has, when I am teary and sentimental. I cringe at the sight of roughhousing while he encourages it. I teach our boys how to save money, and he teaches them how to find bargains and spend it.

It all comes down to this: I like our team; I don't want to be traded to another, esp. one that's not of this Earth. I want to dig my feet into the ground and keep batting.

So, the neurologist says, "You look great. Come back in three months so we can see if there are any changes" and I feel momentarily relieved, but then immediately start to wonder: okay, so no neuromuscular diseases, but what if I've got cancer? What if I'm deluding myself into believing that I'm healthy and the last laugh is on me? Or what if I smash my car up on the way home? Hahaha. Yeah, you think you're safe, but what a crock."

And thus begins the routine of daily checks at home: assess the bulkiness of my calf muscles to ensure that they aren't wasting, monitor twitches (widespread, localized), test strength by balancing on one foot with other leg hyper-extended (ballerina pose) or picking up heavy textbooks (Merck Manual?) with one hand. Add mole checking to the routine. Have Xanax in purse at all times for long car trips or flights.

The fasciculations aren't crippling me. My own mind is.

But what I often neglect to realize is that I'm missing the game. I'm so busy worrying about the draft, I forget to concentrate on the graceful toss of the ball, the comaraderie of the huddle, the glory of the teamwork (regardless of whether or not the game is won).

So, the mystery, which is whether or not I'm going to stay healthy, is one hundred percent irrelevant. I don't want to know. I think I do, but I don't. Because there are no sure things. I want to learn to accept that today, I am able to click at a keyboard, draw liner across my lips, steer a car, push a grocery cart, inspect cake mix, stir fresh basil into sauce, flip the pages of a book, squeeze my husband's hand, and stroke my sons' hair.

The mystery has changed.

The questions to myself now are: are you going to stop worrying about things that aren't within your control? are you going to stop speculating? are you going to start living in the moment? and are you going to do with it with appreciation and grace?

That, that's a mystery I'd like to solve.
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