What I Don't Say
Just after I hang up from the doc, after I've told him that my fingers are curving into claws, and my legs don't work, and my tongue doesn't want to make words, and I'm really scared, and after he says to me, "This sounds like anxiety . . . are you anxious?" and after I compose myself and get my mind around the fact that, yes, this allegedly brilliant man really did just say that to me, and after I congratulate myself on not screaming at him, in my best hoarse, slurring, voice, "If your hands and legs and tongue wouldn't work, wouldn't you be fucking anxious?", I walk through the kitchen and my knee buckles and my hip slides into that odd, every-few-steps dance that Jif isn't used to, and that neither of us wants to get used to, and I see the concern in his eyes, and what I say is, "Aw, don't mind me, that's just my anxiety acting up!" And we hug and laugh a tiny little bit.
What I don't say, as I'm lying in bed with my back to him, and he's rubbing my back with those firm, medium-sized circles that I like so much . . . what I keep thinking, but what I don't say, is "If the time ever comes that I can't tell you, please remember how much I like this. And do it for me. Sometimes." But I don't say that.
Please, God, not ever.
Bad, sad day, ratsasstafarians. No bad news, no good news. Just a tough day. I'll snap out of it. Just needed to vent a little. Forgive the harshing of the mellow. xoxoxox I debated about closing comments, because I really am just venting, but then I didn't want to vent and leave you no outlet for venting along . . . so of course, I'd love your comments. I just ask that you not speculate about what "it" could be, here. Email me if you feel the need to do that. Thank you for coming around. You really have NO IDEA . . . you're a blessing.