May 23, 2003
My mother thinks I’m a worrier for some reason.
Now, I have no idea why this is so. I keep my worrying on a pretty low-key scale, saving it mostly for when Rebecca is not feeling well, mainly because it’s sometimes hard to tell what is sickness and what is her need to be babied when she doesn’t feel well. So when my Mom went in Wednesday morning and had her chest cracked open and her pacemaker implanted, I wasn’t worried.
When no one had bothered to reach me more than 90 minutes after her surgery was supposed to be over, I wasn’t worried. I was pissed, but not worried. That’s just who I am: the soul of calm and placidity in the face of most things.
After finally hearing that her surgery went well and that she was resting comfortably, I wasn’t worried then either.
Really, most things in life that are out of your control are things you shouldn’t worry about. If Mom had decided to give it up while on the operating table, what was there that I could have done? Not a damned thing. Of course that would have been beyond horrible, but as far as worrying about it, that just wasn’t going to happen.
That isn’t to say that I’m without hypocrisy on this subject (see the stuff about Rebecca above), but I’ve spent a great deal of therapeutic time in letting go of the things I cannot change. So I am holding out hope that she’ll stop worrying a bit. She’s afraid to worry me, and I understand that on a basic level, but eventually, I have to be the one who gets the serious details about the bad shit instead of getting it filtered through Rebecca. I’m a grown up now, almost 33 years old. Serious. Responsible. And I’m trying very hard not to worry about that.