Blonde or French Roast?

I was struggling between two potential topics for this next post:

A) “Favorites” – since the last entry was about things that annoy me I thought about switching it up to something more positive.

B) “My GREATEST Fear” –  a topic which is a bit dark and kind of a downer.

But I mean really, this is ME we’re talking about. Let’s be honest – if I ever choose fluffy over depressing you know I’ve been body snatched by the pod people. Or faeries. Or Q. (Edit: also, (B) has become extra pertinent since I first started drafting this post a couple of days ago, so (B) it is).

Particularly in light of the tragic events unfolding lately, one after another like a deranged domino-deathtrap designed by the effing Hellraiser, I want to talk about what scares me MOST: Having my husband die before I do.

I’m sorry, it’s just not okay. We’ve been together for 21 years at this point and I refuse to accept the idea that I would be stuck trying to figure out how to live in the world as an adult without him. Nope. He has been repeatedly told, and made to swear, that I get to die first. That’s the deal, dammit. No excuses…

I think most people have some form of this fear, whether they would call it their “worst” or not. But as a person with anxiety…. I look around at the trash can fire that is our world today and I am gripped by sheer and utter terror that as soon as I let him out of my sight, something terrible is going to happen. I am plagued by images popping into my brain at random but regular intervals almost everyday…

…of a police officer showing up at my door to say he’s gone

…or of checking Facebook only to find the latest “Breaking News” is of some horrible attack happening wherever he is

…or of him going for a routine doctor’s appointment only to find out he has some terminal illness

… or waking up one morning to discover he’s died in bed next to me during the night

And you might say that while these are somewhat rational fears, that the likelihood of any of them actually happening is minimal. But tell that to the family of Paul Walker or the other 40,000 people that died in car crashes in 2016 alone. Or people in Vegas or Charlottesville or Boston or London or Manchester or countless others. Tell that to my best friend who lost her 39 year old husband to cancer. Tell that to the families of Jonathan Crombie or John Ritter.

I try not to let these (or any of my fears for that matter), paralyze me. In the end – there is nothing you can do about any of them. I mean, I guess you could become a shut in to eliminate the whole car accident and mass shooting/bombing scenario, but you still have house fires and deadly breaking-and-enterings and natural disasters (oh my), so it’s not like being in your house guarantees your safety. And in terms of illness, especially sudden and unexpected health issues, you have even less control over that…  So what can you do? You could stop living while you’re still alive for fear of dying, but what’s the sense in that?

So I will keep traveling the world, and going to concerts, and getting in my car each day. I will try to live my live without thinking about what could happen to me.

But my husband? He’s going into a hermetically sealed bubble effective immediately.

No. Into the bubble with you. No arguments.

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tpanek

Wife of more than 20 years, mom, wrangler of a houseful of furbabies, and certified crazy person… Writing has always been a passion. I’m also an avid reader of everything from sci-fi/fantasy to historical accounts of creepy medical history. My first book A Home For Baby Acorn can be found on Amazon and Blurb, and my first adult venture – Wait, What Were We Talking About – will be available later this year.

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