The Thing That Almost Killed Me

It was almost Christmas. It was The Very Bad, No Good Year. I was wrapping presents and wondering if the teeth on the tape roll would be sharp enough to slit my wrists.
I spent a lot of that year convincing myself of a lot of things. We would be OK, I would survive, there would someday be another baby in our home, I would not for the love of all that is good NOT miscarry again, I could make it through the day without trying to drown myself in the sink.
And then the phone rang.
It was our Doctor.
It was 8 pm.

Doctors don't call at 8 pm with good news.

That night began a rather hellish up and down journey with my husband's health. One that could have been prevented if he'd had the vaccine available to him as a child.

Suddenly, it was blood tests and a biopsy and a specialist and very expensive medicine and more blood tests.

And soul crushing worry.

Now, after spending hours crying on my bathroom floor, I would crawl into bed, exhausted and unable to sleep, thinking about what I would do if I lost him too.
I functioned on auto pilot.
I smiled and carried on with family and friends because that's just what I did.
More blood tests, more medicine.

Whispered, fervent prayers in the quiet of the night.

Smiling happy wife during the day.

David was born and the anxiety that followed me through my pregnancy, the same anxiety that crowded every corner of my being, left.

And soon Husband Anxiety moved in.

That pesky bitch has been following me for almost 5 years.

I stopped crying on the bathroom floor- but I didn't stop laying awake most of the night wondering what was next.

More blood tests, new medicine.

He started talking about a cure, hollistic medicine.

I started pacing the halls at night.

More blood tests.

He came home from his doctor's appointment convinced that he would be dead in less then 10 years because this medicine, this miracle drug wasn't working.

Inside I crumbled, ouside I called his Doctor. Miracle drug is maybe not working. Not working as fast as he'd like. We'll see. Wait 3 months.

And everything was on hold. Our plans for another child, our plans for vacation. Instead we waited and worried.

I wondered if it was possible to simply die over the worry.

More blood tests.

Miracle drug seems to be working after all. Give it time.

Time. Time is a funny thing. When things are going well and there is much to look forward too, it seems that there is never enough of it. When you are waiting to find out whether the medicine your husband is taking will save his life, or ...well... not, it is endless.

So we waited.

We went on with the business of living. We were occasionally successful in our ability to ignore the giant elephant in the room. Mostly we were not. Or more accurately, I was not.

I am a champion at the job of Worry. If Worry was an Olympic sport I could totally kick Michael Phelps ass (I cannot, however, swim worth a damn so, um, yea).

More blood tests.

He came home with a smile.

"It's gone."


It is.

All of it.


I can finally close the lid on The No Good, Very Bad Year.


And it's good.