“I can’t really help with the yardwork today.” I sighed dramatically. “My brain tumor is acting up.”
My husband wasn’t buying it. “Weeding the garden won’t aggravate a tumor.”
“Are you kidding me? Any exertion could cause an aneurysm to explode in my skull.”
He glanced up, “Have you been having headaches?”
“How’s your blood pressure been?”
“Borderline, but the doctor said recent research suggests that borderline is the new high.”
He shook his head. “If you finish the weeding, I’ll have some flowers to bring to your funeral.”
Lest you think that drama is a bad thing, I’d like to think it brings a richness to my writing. It also gives me a chance to use “lest” in a sentence. Sure, my breasts may heave with desire from time to time, or I might occasionally swoon when I see a cockroach, but doesn’t everybody? In my defense, that cockroach was a beast, and I found him IN MY PANTIES!!! (but that’s another story).
This Sunday, there will be plenty of drama at our house. My husband and I will be sitting at opposite ends of the couch, me with my Green Bay cheesehead, and him with his Steelers terrible towel. When his team scores, he does a goofy little happy dance that looks like a chicken in heat. I do a very unladylike screech accompanied by a fist pump. It’s been known to disrupt satellite reception…in Bismark. My feeling is, if you choose to live in North Dakota, ya got it comin’.
We know that sequels are rarely as good as the original. Last week I had been all worried about freaking out for my MRI. As it turns out, they put me in the full tube, and instead of freaking out, I fell asleep. Yes, people, while jackhammers were going off all around my head, I was snoring. It was kind of embarrassing to come out of the test with morning breath and drool in my hair.
So now all that’s left to worry about is the doctor’s report. I’ve already worked it out in my mind: “We found nerve impingement above and below your fusion, but we were expecting that. The brain tumor came out of right field. Didn’t see that one coming!”