In the past couple of weeks I’ve contracted and been cured of at least three life threatening illnesses. The miraculous recoveries usually occur overnight. Just last night, I was snuggled under the comforter and flannel sheets wondering how I would tell my husband that it was likely I’d be seeing a specialist next week, wondering who I could teach to do my work in the short time I had left, thinking of having my sister, an RN, assist me in a hospice capacity through the end; a plan quickly chucked in view of her pragmatic bedside manner, the Beulah Balbricker-Nurse Ratched method of palliative care. I expect to have many needs whilst I fade sloooowly away; I’m not sure she has the humanity to serve them.
I wasn’t the least bit morose while I lay there tucked in the cotton cloud of covers. I’ve had a great life. Naturally, I had some concerns in the final edits of my obituaries, three of them for the three most popular scenarios-suddenly, after a long illness, or the unfortunate victim of homicide. I wondered if, since I’ll be dead, it would be appropriate to air the grievances I’ve been stifled from articulating during life, a post script of sorts. The sad fact is, there’s only one person I could trust to have the thing published and she wouldn’t make it here in time to beat the do-gooders to the paper. I wondered if I’d start to feel panicked and I supposed at some point I would. I decided not to tell my husband until I’d made the appointment with the specialist.
Good news! This morning my husband told me I have a bite and he showed me the one he has on his finger.
Usually, I’m healthy as horse and strong like bull. In the past couple of weeks I’ve been feeling rather poorly and noticing that my heart is not dependable, respirations are not what they should be, and I’ve got symptoms there aren’t even any diseases for yet. When I retrieved the mail today, and saw the most recent offer for LIFE INSURANCE the cause of my ailments was revealed.
Soon, I will be officially received into the club of people who have more time behind them than they have in front of them. I suspect AARP is afraid to send solicitations to me due to the snarky responses I mailed to them after my mother died and they kept bugging her about her lapsed membership. Instead, those ruthless geriatrics have sold my name and info to every insurance company on the planet. No wonder I’m sick, a subliminal pathogen’s got a stranglehold on me and it’s reaching for my checkbook.