Ten reasons why your mother may be crying. Plus one more reason.

11. She slept through the alarm clock because she didn't sleep last night, you're the reason why and you're not listening.
10. She's trying to have her morning "Me Time", the only thing she gets to do by herself all day. The roll of toilet paper is devoid of toilet paper, she didn't sleep last night, you're the reason why and you're not listening.
9. It's five minutes of eight. She's trying to force a toothbrush across your teeth when you have clearly stated that you will NOT be brushing your teeth. Your brother's not getting dressed. She's not been able to get dressed. She's just asked your brother for the twelfth time to stop playing with LEGOs and get dressed. Did she mention it's five minutes of eight, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you're not listening?
8. The car window is stuck an eighth of the way down...AGAIN. Rain is the predicted forecast. You're fighting with your brother about who gets in the car first. He's officially late for school which means she needs to get out of the car to sign him in. Plus, she has to remove you from the car and getting you into the car was hard enough to begin with. She's still in her pajamas because she never had a chance to do more than put on her bra and gargle some mouthwash...thank God for small miracles. Also, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you're still not listening.
7. You want to get in the carriage. You want to get out of the carriage. You want a piece of cheese. You need to use the bathroom even though you were told to use it at home before you left because the bathroom here is a bacteria farm, and you're next in line at the deli. You want the cupcake flavored Gold Fish. You REALLY WANT the cupcake flavored Gold Fish. WHY CAN'T YOU HAVE THE CUPCAKE FLAVORED GOLD FISH? She hasn't slept, you are the reason why and WHY THE FUCK AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO HER?
6. She hasn't had her first coffee yet and it's almost lunchtime. The groceries still need to be put away. You want lunch. Grilled cheese. No. Mac and Cheese. No fruit snacks. You'll just get the fruit snacks out of the snack drawer even though she's told you "No" all eight thousand times you've asked. You don't want to bother her again because she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you are listening, because she said you could have a piece of fruit and technically there is real fruit flavoring in said snacks.
5. You ate the fruit snacks. You ate the goddamn fruit snacks! And now you won't touch the grilled cheese because you said you wanted mac and cheese, and anyway your lunch shelf is full. And she hasn't slept. And you said MAC AND CHEESE so, she is the one who's not listening.
4. She didn't get to do yoga today because she was busy with a tantrum you had regarding the snack refusal caused by your failure to eat lunch, and now it's time to pick up your brother, but you don't want to go because you're  hungry and you want to watch Doc McStuffins and your shoes are too uncomfortable and you don't want to wear that sweatshirt. Your mom still has to tape a plastic bag over the stuck window, she can hear the thunder rumbling, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and if you don't start fucking listening she's going to take that pillow you're clutching against your chest and clutch it against your face!
3. It's not fair that your brother has to go to karate. Why can't he just skip it this once, for the twentieth time? He wants to play with his friends, even though it's down pouring and you are firmly attached to your mother's torso, because you're cold, because you refused to put on your sweatshirt because you were hot and it was ugly. Well that's it. She always works, dad always works, your brother never gets to see his friends, even though they are together ALL day! He's out. And...you're out because suddenly, annoying your brother and his friends seems like fun. You're both hitting the playground if you can just wriggle out of your mom's grip. Nuts to her. She's mean when she hasn't slept and you're the reason why. And if you don't start listening and get in the fucking car you can both spend the night in the typhoon on the playground, because nuts to you, she's out!
2. You don't want tacos for dinner. They are gross and you hate them. Your brother wants grilled cheese for dinner. So do you. Just like the one you shunned at lunch. No wait. You want mac and cheese. But he wants grilled cheese. Tacos are gross. You'll throw up if she makes you eat one. Can you pillow joust down the hallway? Can you have a juice box? No, chocolate milk. Can she make you chocolate milk? Can you have a snack? Where did your brother get the chips from? What do you mean papa gave him chips? You want chips! It's not fair if he gets chips but you don't get chips. Is dinner almost ready? Is it mac and cheese? What are you having again? Tacos? You hate tacos. They are gross and they'll make you throw up! You asked for chocolate milk. Can you have chocolate milk? Please? It's getting late and dinner's not made yet and you and your brother still need showers and she hasn't slept and you're the reason why and WHAT THE FUCK DOES SHE HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU STOP TALKING FOR FIVE MINUTES AND START LISTENING?
1. It's five minutes of eight. You're not tired. You. Are. Not. Tired. The room is too dark. The nightlight is too bright. You need another bottle of water, it will help you calm down. The pajamas are too hot. The mattress isn't comfortable. Will she lie down with you for a few minutes? Now she needs to lie down with your brother who needs another book because he only has one. And if he gets another one you get another one. You suddenly have to pee, even though you didn't have to pee 5 minutes ago when she told you to try and pee before bed. It's 8:45 p.m. You're tired and crying. Your brother's tired and crying. She is tired, crying and repeating the phrase, "Please just GO! TO! SLEEP!" over and over and over.... Everyone is tired and crying, and no one's sleeping. She certainly hasn't slept, you were definitely the reason why and who gives a fuck if you listen anymore tonight? She's done talking. Don't come out of your room. Just don't. The consequences are dire because she's officially broken and she knows she's got to wake up too soon and do it all over again tomorrow morning. 

The Mother's Curse

I don’t like my daughter. Until recently, I have only admitted this in the company of people that know me well enough to know that they don’t have to seek help from the Department of Child Welfare.  My secret warrants only a silent nod from these chosen few, because they are soldiers in the same battle, who have been witnesses to the same atrocities. They offer me smiles of camaraderie, share stories of the torture they’re enduring at the hands of a demon that they chose to painfully bring into the world, as we drink our way through our PTSD: Parenting Traumatic children Stress Disorder.

I love my children, but I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that my son is probably my favorite at the moment because his behavior is much more palatable. He’s at the top of the food chain right now, he knows it and he’s acting accordingly in order to remain in our good graces and continue reaping the benefits.  Quinn, on the other hand has become far too punk rock for my liking. She’s the embodiment of anarchy and someday, a long time from now when she’s out of the house and fighting somebody else’s system I’m sure I will fully appreciate her spunk. In this stage of her development, however, I feel like a hostage negotiator and the life I’m trying to save is Quinn’s. I don’t think she understands just how close to the edge she’s come. I don’t think she cares. If she’s going over the cliff, she’s plummeting in full fight mode and though she is currently my nemesis, I respect that. The kid’s got balls. And they are HUGE!

The past few weeks have been the worst I’ve had as a parent and that includes Quinn’s infant years which were filled with both colic and MONTHS of sleepless nights. When she was a baby, she couldn’t articulate the way she can now. I didn’t know what she wanted and though the trial and error seemed frustrating at the time, I find myself fantasizing about having that little, wailing mound of flesh back in the baby Bjorn, completely, unquestioningly…under my control. Control is the prize, you see. She wants it, I have it…barely. I’m clinging on by the tips of my fingernails. She’s older. She’s smarter. She can communicate…if you can call it that. Our fights are arduous and they are over the most minuscule shit. I have invested more time and energy into getting my daughter to wear, eat and do things that she has clearly indicated she doesn’t want to do, than I ever did in anything of real importance, like, say my education or career.  In fact, if trying to reason with a toddler was my career…and it kind of is…I’d be at the top of my field. To be honest, the amount of rage I feel regarding these trivialities is more residual than anything. I wake up hopeful every morning; whispering a mantra of serenity so I can get through the day without having to be the banshee I hate so much. And I fail every morning, which is something I irrationally blame my daughter for most days. It’s not her fault. I can tell myself that a million times, but the part of me that doesn’t want to accept responsibility for my low success rate is totally deaf to reason…much like my daughter. The constant failure at the one thing I’ve dedicated my life to, my kids; the constant hiccups we’ve experienced; it all builds up throughout the week and suddenly it’s Friday, and the banana that she's peeled for breakfast but suddenly doesn’t want any more becomes a grenade launched at what little remains of my endurance. My patience, thin as a spider’s web snaps and World War Why goes into full launch sequence. I’m screaming like a lunatic about the cost of food. I’m pushing the banana at her, making decrees that she will starve before she wastes any more while she angrily slaps at my hand, jettisoning the remaining banana at the floor, simultaneously wailing and flailing. And just like that, the tone is set for the day. Failure before we’ve even stepped out of the gate, all because of a need to maintain this delusion that I have the control. 

My Quinn is a beautiful, unique, infuriatingly independent little monster. I think the thing that sucks the most about her age is that I can’t allow myself to enjoy her, because I’m so busy trying to modify the thing I love most about her; her passion. She is not afraid to question why I want her to do things, the way I want her to do them. She’s three and a half and she’s already advocating for herself in a way that I still can’t as an adult, which makes me so proud of her that I could burst. By the same token, it’s that same quality about her that can send me into spells of a rage I never thought possible as a parent. Do you know there are some nights, when she’s finally sleeping, that I climb into her bed next to her, hold her and fight the urge to sob.  I love her so much and I feel like I’m incapable of showing her just how wonderful she is when I spend so much of our time together lately, not liking her at all. 

Sometimes when I’m in full-on Hulk Mama Mode, I can’t help but notice my parents smirking. I was an awful child. I kicked walls, rejected rules, lied, took things that didn’t belong to me, said hurtful, nasty things…I was, undeniably, a bottomless pit of defiance. Their curse worked and their smirks represent the unspoken joy at surviving the years of torment only to be able to spectate as a smaller, more potent version of myself puts me through the same kind of hell. My only salvation is knowing that my mom came out unscathed only to find she had a friend as well as a daughter. I can only hope the same reward awaits me and Quinn.

DiLisio's: 999,997 /Germs: 3

I have to come clean about something. I allow my kids to eat without sanitizing their hands. Some times after they've touched playground equipment, shopping carts, public hand railings, elevator buttons and some times,don't gag, after they've taken a whiz. I also allow them to eat food after it falls on the floor. Some times, well traveled floors. I know. I'm an unhygienic nightmare. I can also count on one unsanitary hand the number of times my kids have been ill since they were infants and still have dirty fingers left over. Now I accept that I may just be gambling and winning. Maybe my kids are so inundated with germs that the little plague inducers are killing each other off in the ultimate battle to see who's going to infect them first. I like to think that their immune systems are as fortified as Croatia, made indestructible by constant exposure. I'm not saying they never wash their hands or throw out floor food. They have baths every night. They scrub after they poop and on the rare occasion that they pet farm animals, I will use sanitizer. If a goldfish is encrusted with dirt and hair I don't dust it off and put it back in their baggie.I'm not totally disgusting. What I am saying is: If you ever see me loading my kids up with sanitizer or throwing out a perfectly good fruit snack simply because its kissed super market tile, it's totally for show; so you won't think I'm some sort of germ infested, plague producer who lets her kids feed on filth, which is exactly what I am. My grandfather, God rest his soul, had a saying. "You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die." I'm pretty sure when he said that he wasn't envisioning my children gulping down mouthfuls of the tub water they've been marinating in but hey, we're all still here to talk about it. And healthy.

"Across the Universe": A perfect moment with my son and daughter.

I waste a copious amount of time complaining about both of you guys, so why should today be any different, right? This afternoon, while tucking freshly laundered sheets around the mattress of my bed and muttering about how things would never get done if I didn't do them, something happened. A moment I would've otherwise missed. Ev, you had asked me earlier what songs I'd sung to get you to sleep as an infant. Instead of reciting the list, I found the CD I'd made for you (when you'd gotten to the point of sleeping without the aid of constant rocking) and put it on in your room. I took the mattresses off of the box springs and told both of you to go nuts...and you did. Then I proceeded to my room to begrudgingly make my bed, telling you when it was made and I was ready for yours, jumping time was over.

"Words keep pouring out like endless rain into a paper cup; they slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe."

I heard those words pouring out of your tiny stereo speakers and I was taken back to that first year with you, Ev. Holding you in the dark while you whimpered about things you hadn't the capacity to explain to me and singing under my breath while I rocked and prayed you would fall asleep soon. And I started to cry, not just because I'm suffering through my monthly hormonal upheaval, but because I never took the time to relish it while it was happening. People gave me the whole "You'll look back one day..." diatribe and I was skeptical that I would apply it to any instance in your infancy, but there I was, looking back. And I cried because I wish I'd sung more to you, Quinn and because your infancy seems like one angry, sleepless blur to me. I'm not going to lie, your first few months are not ones I look back on fondly, but the singing, that's something I regret we've never shared and I hope to rectify that soon. There were nights when I wandered the apartment, cradling you for the umpteenth time and wondering how sane I was to think I could handle another child, but here you are; stubborn, independent, outrageously funny, SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT (thank the lord) and I realize that you are a prime example of "the best is yet to come."

"Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind; Possessing and caressing me."

I stopped making my bed and sat on the edge, looking past my door frame into yours and watched you both as you bounced off of those mattresses, giggling like loons and screaming for me to come watch as you flipped yourselves around in ways that made me cringe. Ev, I saw you help your sister complete that somersault that had been eluding her; patiently instructing her on where to place her head and how to push off with her legs. Quinn, hearing you yell, "Enan, watch me!" as you did it once more, by yourself, was pure joy. It was a perfect moment; no one screaming, no one angry, no one disobeying or fighting for control. So, I went in and knelt on the floor in the only space not occupied by a mattress, and watched you both without interfering, overcome by a feeling of contentment. Even though your father and I have made some horrendous decisions over the years, you two represent sparks of absolute genius.  

I know some days I make you both feel like you can't do a single thing right. In fact, we share a lot of moments throughout our days that I would consider far less than perfect. Days when I seem to take away all the things you love. Days when I do more yelling than laughing. Days when the word "No" seems to be on a constant loop. Days when I spend more time giving you my opinion than asking you for yours. I know I've missed out on creating some wonderful moments because I'm usually more compelled to complain than to accept and I'm sorry for that. When I look at you both I see all the things I like about myself, as well as all the things I'd like to change. But you should know, behind the veil of frustration is a woman who wouldn't want to change either of you for all the money in the world. Some days it seems that you are both proof that at least twice in my life, I've done something right; today, in that moment, especially.

"Jai Guru Deva, om. Nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world. Nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world."

 

The Incidental Finding

As you may have read in one or more of my previous posts, I am a hypochondriac. I am a hyper, hypochondriac. That means not only am I very familiar with the quickest routes to all the ER's in my area, but I am also very adept at navigating through WebMD. My most recent venture to the ER was for reflux; more precisely, the feeling that acid was gouging through my digestive track and indiscriminately eviscerating everything vital.  I figured I'd be loaded up with protonix and sent on my way with nothing more than a $200 bill and foolish regret.  I wasn't terribly surprised when I was rolled into CT. I was shocked when I was informed I'd be admitted for the night. When I asked the hospitalist why, I was handed a piece of paper and told to read.  There was a lot of medical jargon that my brain couldn't process but as a hyper, hypochondriac, my eyes were immediately drawn to the words "large brown tumor","Lytic Lesion" and "possible malignancy". These are words a hyper hypochondriac like myself know well.  I had two immediate reactions. The first was, "Holy shit, there may be something wrong with me!" (I'm not crazy) and "Holy shit! There may be something wrong with me?" (Seriously, there may be something wrong with me?).  So they brought me to a room, gave me an Ambien and told me to take all that information I'd swallowed; all those horrible, bitter tasting words and "throw them away".  We would cross that bridge, IF we came to it. Reassuring...if you're not a hyper hypochondriac...which I am.  Chemically induced slumber overtook me and I'm not saying I'd take them again, but I can see how Ambien could be addictive.  Beautiful, unencumbered sleep where, though dreams are not allowed, neither are nightmares. Next morning, I had my MRI and sure enough, they found a sizable lytic lesion embedded in the Illiac Crest of my pelvic bone. Instead of biopsying it locally, I was advised to consult an orthopedic oncologist in Boston.  Tomorrow I go to Dana Farber to meet  a new doctor who will study my pelvic bone in all its lytic glory...and I'm scared shitless. For the weeks leading up to my appointment I've been pretty optimistic. I'd go so far as to say I've been downright unfazed, which for a hypochondriac is a feat in and of itself. I've convinced myself that everything is going to be fine. That this doctor will give me a smile, a hearty handshake and a diagnosis that will include the word "benign". Tonight, even as I type this, I feel as though I've jinxed myself. Like, by telling myself everything will be okay, I've sealed my fate. Though I've never had any consistent pain in my pelvic bone, I now find I'm overly sensitive to any discomfort in that area.  I swear I can feel this thing just pulsing and growing; this threatening, unwelcome incidental finding, messing with me from a place I can't reach. Last night, I had heartbreaking visions of having to tell my children the most awful news. I thought, what if I don't get to see them grow up? What if my husband has to raise them alone? What if they forget all about me and how much I loved them after I'm gone? My husband held me close and let me cry before telling me what he always tells me when I'm contemplating death; that I'm a hypochondriac, that everything is going to be fine and that I spend too much time worrying about things that may never come to fruition.  A co-worker of mine, who happens to be a radiologist, took a look at the images for me and told me he was 99% sure this was a non-issue. He felt confident saying things look favorable for me living a long, healthy life. 99% and all I can focus on is that 1% he can't give me. I've hugged my son, daughter and husband a lot over the last couple of days. I've uttered the phrase "I love you" more times in the past 48 hours than I can count. I've tried really hard to be patient, nurturing and calm, because I can't afford to have them remember me as a cranky, angry woman they're glad to be rid of, should I be handed over to that 1%. That 1% has given me a lot of perspective on what it means to appreciate even the most miserable parts of your life...because at least you still get to experience them. When I come home tomorrow with, what I'm sure will be a clean bill of health, I'll forget all about embracing the mundane and finding the good in our bad times. The marker on the table, the spilled juice cup, the arguments over bed time will once again send me to the brink of insanity with my children. Chris and I will fall back into our routine of nagging each other and tallying up who does more on a daily basis: who changed more diapers, who got less sleep, who did more dishes. I don't know what would be less unfortunate. I want to be in that 99%, but I don't want to forget to live in the 1%. 

The Little Things...

The appreciation of an uninterrupted virus, the capacity to "drag myself" to the gym, deciding I don't feel like going grocery shopping and just surviving on plain couscous for one more day...certain things start to seem insignificant or irrelevant when you have unlimited time to spend  thinking about them or doing them. When I had my first kid, my ability to engage in the little, personal things became less and less frequent. When Capt. Insano was born, attending to certain needs was no longer an option. Even in the shower I'm only good for 5 minutes unless I wait until 9 in the evening and quite frankly the night is my only time to breathe and do, without being hampered by other's needs. I've got a laundry list of stuff I want to do for myself and only a few, treasured hours to do them. Showering barely makes that list. If you have kids I assume you'll know exactly what it means to forsake the little things in an effort to be a "good parent". If you don't, here's a list of some of the most important little things I've foresaken in my life in an effort to be a "good parent". 

1. Eating and digesting an entire meal by myself. I can't remember the last time I sat down with a plate of food that didn't have little hands coming at it from all angles.  That tomato wasn't appealing all cut up on their dish, but for some reason mine looks irresistibly delicious. I'm considering stabbing at their digits with my heavy, adult sized fork, prison style, to send a clear message that mommy's food is mommy's food...but that would be wrong, right?This goes for drinks, too. My water is MY water. My decaf ice coffee is MY decaf ice coffee. Placing it on a table is not code for them to come and help themselves. Back off, grabby pants. Also, it frustrates the hell out of me when I ask the dynamic duo if they want a bowl of whatever it is I'm preparing to indulge in and they refuse it, but proceed with a two fisted aerial assault on whatever it is they just turned down; chips, grapes, crackers...Maybe next time I'll put my food down my pants or spit in it first. Chow down, cherubs.

2. The time consuming practice of femininity.Shaving my legs, applying mascara, plucking my eyebrows and chin whiskers, blow-drying my hair, trimming the shrubbery shrouding my special lady island and any other general maintenance  that helps me look and feel like a human being and not like something you see in a blurry photo on a paranormal website. I used to file this kind of activity under "D" for Drudgery. Now I just wish I could get more than 10 minutes in the shower to make sure I've scrubbed everything properly. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll probably resemble a Yeti for the next couple of years.

3. Sexual healing. Being able to enjoy sex. This is a huge one. I've been given the ole' lock the door advice and while that seems well and good, there's the part of my brain that's been taken hostage by my children that keeps telling me its not allowable. "What if they're sick and they need you?" It asks. "What if there's an emergency and you can't hear them dying or choking or screaming, because you're too busy fulfilling you're own selfish, primal needs?" It questions condescendingly. And then my climax is interrupted by what I think is the sound of children crying but is actually the sound of mine and my husband's intimacy creaking to a standstill. I'm close to jamming a knitting needle through my nostril cavities to lobotomize the invaded portion of my brain. Funny story (I...guess?). There was one time we did lock the door and when we were done doing the dirty, we opened it back up only to find our precious daughter standing at our feet, shell shocked, teary eyed and loudly sucking on her binky. We were thankful we were fully clothed and realized that a locked door doesn't mean shit to a child in the throes of teething pain. Also lying in our bed of sin with her was incredibly, mentally uncomfortable. (See also: Hearing noisy toys go off while attempting to turn each other on, because nothing makes me hotter than hearing Sir Topham Hat's disembodied voice telling me I'm "a very useful engine.")

4.Quiet time in my office. I'm just going to say it: I miss taking a dump by myself; whether its being able to catch up on my reading, sending out texts telling people I'm texting them on the toilet or just marveling in the stench and size of what I've created, I prefer to do it alone. And by alone, I mean without hearing constant knocking or talking outside the door which aside from being awkward is really distracting. Also, I pray that the next time I have diarrhea, I won't have to deal with it in front of two little people who, thankfully are respectful enough not to comment on the noise and smell as they read, play in the sink and exterminate a little bit more of my dignity and modesty. On a slightly different note in the same vein, my son's bathroom activity seems to revolve around mine as of late, so there will never be a time I won't feel rushed, because my son is screaming "Mommy, are you almost done, I have to go real bad!"

5. Brushing my teeth and other hygiene.  We've all been there. Hustling to get the bag packed with all the unnecessaries that we're positive will be necessary. Herding the children into a corner and forcing clothing over their wriggling bodies. Changing that last minute crap diaper that I couldn't smell until I almost had the door closed. Realizing as I'm halfway to the playground that I didn't brush my teeth, change my tampon or apply deodorant that morning, meaning interaction with other people may have to be done from several feet away. I was going to include these with item 2, but there's a big difference between looking appalling and smelling appalling, and I've been a member in both clubs.

6. Fuck you and the swear jar you rode in on. Last but not least, I miss being able to swear. Really swear. Filth used to be an art form in our house. It was a competition to see who could fit more vulgarity into a single, coherent conversation. Now it's just one more thing my children feel they can reprimand me for. When we're in public my son tells me I need to put money in the swear jar. What fucking swear jar? I never authorized a swear jar. Honestly, any money I put in the swear jar is going right to DD's anyway, so the next time I swear, instead of telling me I need to put money in this imaginary swear jar that will never come to fruition if I can help it, I should be instructed to go get a coffee. "Oops, Mommy called that guy a shit face ass munch. Guess I'll have to swing around the Drive Thru and pay my penance."

In closing, let me say that I love my kids. Some days I just need a reminder because parenthood isn't aways ideal, I'm not perfect and neither are they.

"You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do today."

I'm 35 years old. I have low cholesterol and blood pressure and during my short time on the planet I've had two stress echocardiograms. That's more than some people, twice my age will ever have.  My first one was in 2000, my last was in 2012 and both doctor's results and opinions were the same. For those of you under the age of 50, that don't know what a stress echocaridiogram is I'll tell you. It's an examine that is usually performed on people much older than 35, with cardiac related issues; i.e. high blood pressure, high cholesteral, diabetes and a history of heart disease in their immediate families, among other things. It's also a test begrudgingly performed on an anxious, hyperchondriac, whose doctor is sick of seeing her for ER follow-ups.  I was fitted with electrodes that registered my heart rate, given an ultrasound, instructed to walk on a treadmill until I thought my lungs would burst, given another ultrasound and asked what I was doing there for a stress echocardiogram. "You're perfectly healthy. Whatever is going on here with your pain, there's no chance it's cardiac related. So, you don't have to be anxious about it anymore, okay?" The cardiologist sighed, looking at my chart, then into my incredulous gaze and once more at my chart, before shaking his head and leaving.
        My mind has had a kung-fu grip on my mortality since my age could be given in single digits; which was when I attended my great-grandfather's funeral. It was the first point in my life, that I clearly remember seeing death and registering it as something that I absolutely didn't want happening to me.  It was shortly thereafter that I had my first panic attack. For those of you who have never had a massive panic attack, I can descibe it to you in five simple words; "OH MY GOD, I'M DYING!"   When I have them, I can't breath and can barely talk. My mind races trying to figure out what the fuck is going on inside my body. I experience pain in my chest, my arms and back; it's unnerving and every time, I'm convinced it's the end. I've been to the ER more times than I can count. I'm sure my records are very entertaining reading material for any doctor unfortunate enough to have to me as a patient.  Without going deep into my medical history and thereby making a very long story short, the ER visits have become fewer and farther between, but the problem will never really be resolved, because I am the problem. No doctor of physical medicine will be able to cure me, no matter how many tests, drugs or reassurring results they offer.  This has nothing to do with my hyperchondria, though a smidgen of that goes a long way with with someone who's neurotic. This is a profoundly rooted fear of dying. It's natural to dread the vast nothingness of death to a certain degree, but my panic has reached an unnatural level. I've always found life to be amazing, even when the individual parts surrounding mine don't seem all that amazing. I can't imagine the day when I won't be able to appreciate all the intangible, little pieces that make up the living, breathing wall of what I am. I can deal with not knowing what's awaits me post mortem, what I can't fathom is the end of revelling in all the things I do know. How my children's breath smells when they first wake up. All the noises my husband makes, both good and downright fucking disgusting.  The way it feels to stub my toe on the same goddamn dumbell almost every morning when I get out of bed. Even the sound of the motorcycles going by my window at midnight on a weekday, which I can't stand. I'd take all of those things for eternity over nothing...or whatever else may come after I've ceased to exist. I've buried myself a hundred times and it's frustrating as hell to claw your way out of the grave only to throw yourself back in a few days later. It makes enjoying all those amazing things about my life a very difficult thing and I'm kind of getting tired of being so afraid of something I have less than NO control over. Death is a certainty and that's about the only certainty within that certainty. How, when and why are the TBD factors. I blame a lot of my extreme health sensitivity on the media. We are inundated with symptoms, tips and warnings on a nearly constant basis; the major downside of  24/7 access to internet and television programming. Turn on the news now. I guarentee there will be some story about  overlooked signs of heart attack in women or how drinking a cup of coffee in the morning has been shown to maybe, possibly be fractionally responsible for breast cancer, in women under the age of 40. I have so much information about my body and what I should and shouldn't put into it that I'm all twisted up.
        My grandparents weren't concerned with shit like this. They were concerned with playing the cards and enjoying the game to the best of their abilities. They lived well into their eighties and that was without the medical advances which seem to be growing by the day. My father didn't see a doctor until he was in his fifties and that was because my mother made him. Up until that point he was feeling fine and perfectly happy to go on until he stopped breathing. With or without the aid of doctors, I am going to die. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe 70 years from now, I don't know. That's the point, I guess. I'll never know, no matter how many tests I have or pills I take or heartbeats I count, I will never know. No one can promise me that I'm going to live forever, but if I keep worrying about it, I'm not going to really live, at all.