The appointment was at 3:30 but she didn’t show up until 3:45.
I had changed into sweat pants and flip flops, to make sure I was comfortable and prepared for whatever she was going to do to me. I expected her to be frumpy and tried to imagine what it would be like to travel from house to house day after day making a bet on the odds of how long people had to live.
When her 1992 Chevy Cavalier pulled up in front of the house I waved from my garden.
Look at me, I thought, I look happy and healthy, completely normal.
She was in a rush.
“I’m so sorry, I had the address wrong in the system.”
“No problem, just come on in,” I shouted across the lawn.
She wasn’t frumpy at all. She was thin and graceful. I immediately change my image and decide she is escaping the hospital for a day job on the road. This must be much more liberating for her. She’s free every day – outside. She seems happy has she whizzes by me, pulling a black suit case on wheels behind her. And quickly it’s clear that she spends more money on her appearance than her car, which I think is totally awesome.
Benjamin can see her from the neighbor’s yard across the street where he is playing with a pack of boys.
“Is that the nurse, Mommy?”
“Yes, Honey, it’s okay.”
“Alright, just let me know if you need me to hold your hand.”
“He’s cute,” she says.
Seconds after we’re inside she has the suitcase on it’s back and open. Inside there were all kinds of medical things. Including a scale.
“We’ll start with this. Just take your shoes off for me.”
I stepped onto the scale and was shocked by the weight. The arrow was hovering over 120 pounds.
“That can’t be right,” I say.
I don’t have a scale at home and I hadn’t measured myself in weeks but I haven’t weighed that little since junior high, I tell her.
“It must have been the man before you. He was a big guy and I think he may have broken the scale,” she raises her eyebrows. “Well, what do you think you are?”
I tell her 135 is safe and we move on.
She finds my vein, takes some blood and then after a few questions has me head into the bathroom for a urine sample.
We exchange a few compliments. I like her shag cut and she likes the “energy” in the house. It does have a nice energy and I do like her shag. And with that, she walks away with pieces of me in some little tubes and that’s it.
A few weeks later a confirmation letter arrived from the insurance company.
I had passed and based on their calculated odds I qualified for a 30 year life insurance policy. After that, all bets are off. I tuck the paperwork into a drawer, not wanting it to stare at me all night. The death stare. The what happens after stare.
It’s something I have been meaning to do since becoming a mother, all of this. And now, the hardest part is next – my will and trust. Who do I leave Benjamin to? There have been conversations between John and I about what would happen if I did suddenly cease to exist. He says he would want to raise Benjamin. I respond, every single time, with a “really? are you sure?”
Hands down, he says.
I go on asking him if he really thinks he would be ready and then I conclude that he would be an amazing single father. But, really? Can you put your “boyfriend” into your will?
What are your after plans? Who would take care of your kids? Personally, I can’t stand the thought of Benjamin being raised by his father – for reasons I can’t go into here at all, but I know I’m not the only one. As for my family, I’m just not sure…
Sorry to be so morbid.
On a lighter note, John Bear and I had an awesome time in Key West. Here are some pictures…
There are so many more, but I must sleep. I need to make a Flickr account again. Long story, but efficiency is key or I will be dead before I’m 62 from exhaustion.