The Bloody Doors Off

The past week or so, I’ve been a bit obsessed with mortality; namely, mine.

A morbid topic for a cheery time of year, to be sure.

But when I had a tinge of chest pain (mostly indigestion, I’m sure), it started the mind whirling.

And of course, being me, I haven’t wanted to say anything because I don’t want to worry anyone, especially Marlo. Plus, I know I’m being ridiculous and over-worrisome. But my mom passed from a widow-maker heart attack, and it scares me that I wouldn’t be around to take care of my family.

And I won’t publish this until I’ve talked with her, because that’s just fucking unfair for her to first read this in a blog post.

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you, growing up. When you hit a certain age, inevitably these thoughts creep in. And you wonder about making a will, and planning for what is, aside from taxes, inevitable. We’re all going to die. Some day.

I just don’t want it to happen for another 30 or 40 years.

Despite searching for work yet again, the frustrations that bring, the money worries, my lower libido (a topic for another time), well, those are tiny negatives in a world that is extremely positive for me. A wife and son, good friends, a roof over my head. Family. Three animals that don’t exactly get along, but are willing to ultimately cohabitate.

And these are things I don’t want to lose. So I get a pang in my chest, and I freak out.

And being me, I internalize it.

Because, as I said, I don’t want to worry anyone.

Not that they’re coming fast and furious. I can count on two fingers the number of times this happened. And I had a heart stress test last year and the results came back clean.