The Outing

The Outing

Okay, now that my fam has all been informed, I see no reason not to put it out there (although many of my fam and friends think it's indiscrete or whatever, I reckon I can use all the support I can muster.)

The thing is my neurologist called me this a.m. and wanted to see me today. I said no can do, because I'd have to drive back and if a neurologist wants to see you today, it's probably not to give you an early birthday lava lamp. So I said, "Spill it."

For a neurologist, this person is very human. Very apologetic and sorry to tell me the news, which really sort of scared me for a second. But the good news is my heart is relatively strong and my carotids are clear. Bad news is that I have an aneurism (maybe two) in my brain. The badder news is that this hadn't anything to do with my other symptoms, most of all, memory loss. THAT is due to some dementia, probably early Alzheimer's.

Now isn't that a bitch?

I'm waiting on a call from a neurosurgeon for a consult. Think about that. First of all I've surely seen the only neurologist in the United States with a personality. I've never dated a surgeon with one. So what will a neurosurgeon be like? Not that I plan to date him or her. Just saying.

So I remember discussing with various friends at various times of my life, what would be the preferred way to die. Since adulthood my choices have always been the same: 1. Major heart attack while making love to Eric Clapton. 2. Being struck by lightening while making love to Eric Clapton. 3. Big ol' fat ass brain aneurism. . . . .
NEVER have I thought that dementia would be a great way to go, especially after watching Mom forget me, having her ask me what my name is, etc. I pretty much ruled out Alzheimer's as a preferred COD.

I've never been a great beauty, or a graceful dancer, or Betty Crocker or anything like that. But, I've always been really smart. So the thought of becoming less smart until I stupid my way to death is quite unappealing to me. MUCH less appealing than a big ass aneurism blowing. 

Evidently, Eric Clapton isn't reading in, dammit. (But if you are. . . well, call me)

So tonight I had a party of sorts. I invited a few friends to come over after work and be here as my husband got home from O Canada. I filled in the hubs, and then we had some company and Margaret took center stage getting to know her new Auntie Jonnie and Uncle Monty and remembering her Auntie Jan. Poor James had seconds before people got here to let things soak in. That was probably a poor decision on my part, but dang it, I needed to celebrate.

If I try to think of people I have known who've had more adventures, who've loved better, felt more deeply, or have just lucked out more than I when it comes to fam and friends, I can think of no one. I've had the life most people dream of. 

James cares for me and Margaret. We are such a blessed family. My grands, Bell and Bump are perfect and I love them more than I ever thought possible. My children - in spite of less than perfect mothering - have grown to be far ends of the perfection spectrum. I have friends - I'm talking real friends - around the planet and they will support me and love me through whatever comes. What more could a person ask? 

I continue to make plans and don't intend to let others opinions deter me from bliss, regardless of what initials they have behind their names. I am blessed beyond all reason. I am grateful.