Phobia

My friend just sent me an e-mail questionnaire about fears. As a general rule, I do not respond to e-mail surveys. I would like to pretend it is because I am too busy at work to be bothered, but it is more likely because I am too busy at work screwing around on Facebook to be bothered. For some reason, I guess I was in the mood to ponder what scares me. I post below because after spending a full fifteen minutes (a.k.a. $75 in billable hours) completing it, I realized I have been wasting time all day and felt guilty. But if I POST it - I feel less like I am wasting time and more like I am ... Oh, I don't know. I needed a mind break. That is my story and I am sticking to it.

Things I am really scared of:

1. Spiders
2. Terrorists
3. Wal-Mart
4. People that use phrases like "I doesn't …" (see Wal-Mart)
   
5. My bikini wax lady
   
6. Dog ick on public sidewalks (Ethan's shoes always find it and it makes me gag. Bring a baggie, people.)
   
7. Nuts (and Epipens)
   
8. Certain judges
   
9. Blue food
   
10. Bats (the flying kind)
    
11. Blood (mine or that of others)
    
12. Raw chicken (so … eww… sinew-y)
    
13. Visible panty lines (a public health crisis)
    

Things I am not scared of:

1. Roller coasters and upside-down amusement park rides
   
2. Heights
   
3. Dentists (Hi Dad!)
   
4. Horses (or jumping horses over 4-foot fences)
   
5. Big dogs (either the animals or the 1980's T-shirt brand)
   
6. The number thirteen
   
7. Tequila shots
   
8. Aliens
   
9. Rabies (I have been through the full complement of rabies anti-serum, thanks to my ill-fated attempt to rescue a Baltimore stray cat)
   
10. Knock-off handbags (ChanNel – good enough!)
    

Things I am little scared of:

1. Flying (Actually, it is more the crashing that concerns me. The flying part is fine.)
   
2. The teacup ride at Disney World
   
3. Sharks (BUT I would go on a Great White cage dive in a heartbeat. Awesome.)
   
4. Jogging at night (Ok – jogging, in general)
   
5. The fact that I suspect that my Blackberry is smarter than I am and would win in an IQ challenge
   
6. The "7s" question at the neurologist (if you are not lucky enough to have your own neurologist, this makes no sense to you)
   
7. When my husband says "Oh, I can fix THAT!" (if you are lucky enough to have your own husband, this makes perfect sense to you)
   
8. When my husband goes to the grocery store and I actually need specific items (Milk!? What!? And WHERE am I supposed to find something like that?!)
   
9. Raising a teenage boy (someday)
   
10. Not raising a teenage boy (someday)

Regarding said boy, he has his own fairly significant and creative list of fears. Ethan does not like to sleep in his room at night, alone. I wish it were just a simple fear of the dark we were dealing with. But if you met me, you would realize that with my "worry" genes, it likely goes much deeper than that. I (foolishly) thought that we could have a rational discussion about "scary things" by talking about them and thereby alleviate some of the fear. Umm. No. And no.

Salient highlights of this conversation:

Good mother attempt: "Why don't you tell me what scares you and then we can talk about it?"

"Nooooo! I am too scared to talk about it!"

After much cajoling on my part, the list began with, "Seals in the bathtub ..."

Me, confused: "Um? Seals? Like Navy Seals? Like, Miss Rachel's husband? Because he is really nice!"

It turns out he was referring to the "Ark, Ark" kind of seal, the ones that like fish and balancing balls on their noses. Those vicious, blood-thirsty monsters of the deep.

I tried. I pointed out how cute seals were and how they only ate fish and how they like ocean water, not bath water ... but, ultimately, I could not satisfactorily reassure him that I was 100% SURE that there was NO possible way EVER that a seal could not get into our bathtub. Maybe one would escape from the circus in Baltimore and hitchhike thirty minutes up I-95 to our suburb where it would notice that our front door was unlocked and turn the knob with its big flipper then flip up the stairs and discover our bathtub, where it would lay in wait until Ethan's bath that night. Unlikely? Yes. But could it happen? I suppose it could. I just read an article about a woman in Maine who found a 9-foot python in her washing machine. Things happen. And so we moved on to ...

"Men on stilts looking through my bedroom window at night while I am sleeping ..."

Um? I asked (gently, while biting the inside of my cheek) whether he had even SEEN a man on stilts. In our neighborhood. Looking though his window?

He replied, gravely, that he had not. But that he thought about it ALL THE TIME.

I told him that I was fairly certain that men, even those on stilts, were not tall enough to reach up to the second-story window and that if they tried to they would probably be unsuccessful because the window is so high.

I knew I had lost this match when I saw his expression change and yet ANOTHER terrifying thought crossed his mind .... Men on stilts falling off their stilts into crumpled heaps!! INJURED AND BLEEDING men in a giant tangled human pile outside of his bedroom window!! While he was sleeping!!

At which point I had no choice. I was forced to concede that indeed, the world could be a horrifying place, and perhaps he should join Jeff and I in our bed tonight. Just to be safe.

Birds And The Bees

Conversation from the car this weekend:

"Mommy, are you pregnant?"

"Nope."

Long pause ... "Mommy, am I pregnant?"

"If you are, Ethan, you are totally grounded."

Why I Blog

I have been on a blogging siesta. It is summer, after all. There have been other reasons; I have been feeling awful lately – just awful. Poor Jeff is tired of hearing me complain recently that I "feel like I am dying." I have not blogged about it because who wants to read about how I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton and my body is full of lead? How, on weekends, I can sleep for fourteen hours straight and still feel like I have pulled two all-nighters in a row. How I agreed to help my friend out and babysit her one and three-year children and then, in the middle of the day, called my husband at work – sobbing – because I felt like I could not physically keep up with them and was SO MAD at that moment at my ridiculous body, my ridiculous brain, my ridiculous diagnosis.

The second reason stems from an issue more complex. When I started this blog, I did not set "rules" about what I would and would not post. I was strictly in survival mode. I had just been handed a life-altering diagnosis and I had two simple goals: 1) keep family and friends updated because I knew I was in for a roller coaster ride and 2) venting. I had a lot to vent about. I still do. I did not think through the potential implications of posting about family or friends or intimate details or sex or whatever. I just did not. Going forward I feel like I have an obligation to pause and reflect on what I say.

A recent post caused great upheaval in a relationship that was already, at best, fractured. I will not get into messy details (though I would LOVE to) out of respect for certain persons involved. Those in my "real life" know what has transpired and why because we have discussed BlogGate 2008 and the fallout ad nauseam. While I do wish that certain relationships were and could be different, they are not. So I have thrown up my hands and cut my losses. I do not need (extra) negativity in my life at this time (ever?). It is difficult to accept that there are some people who will never treat you the way you wish they would. On the flipside, there are those that will treat you 200% better than you ever expect them to. With my new "life is short" mantra, I prefer to focus on those relationships.

As a result of this tsunami, I debated removing my past blogs. I debated password protecting my posts. I debated stopping blogging altogether. After some serious internal wrestling, I have decided to do none of those things. Here is why:

Blogging is great therapy. I like to write. I enjoy the creative process of sitting down with my computer and committing my thoughts to print. Legal writing is not the same as personal disclosure and analysis.

The sense of community is amazing. It is wonderful to hear from people I have not spoken with in years – people that are thinking about me, praying for me, cheering for me. Thank you, all – your messages make it easier to get through the tough days.

My son. I may need some Kleenex by the time I am done this part. Assuming worst case scenario, I worry about my son. My husband; he'll be ok. He has had ten plus years - and counting - to enjoy (?) me and all my neuroses and personality and company. He'll be just fine ... but my son. My son?

I worry about death. It just seems so – I don't know – final. To be more precise, it is not death per se that I worry about. I worry about the process of death. All the inevitable losses - the loss of independence, the loss of communication, the loss of self. I worry that my son's last thoughts of me might be in this state of decline. I worry that he may never know me as a real person. I worry about my legacy. I want him to know about me. I want a record of my thoughts, my jokes, how much I loved him. Are you crying yet? I am.

So I will BLOG! I will BLOG for me! For the First Amendment! For women with brain tumors and overpriced shoe shopping addictions, EVERYWHERE! I will persevere.

Parting thought: If you do not like it, then stop reading it.