Nothing to See Here…

No, I’m serious. 

At first I thought it was Parkinson’s.  I was all mentally dividing up my stuff amongst the five girls.  “Well, Katie should get my cheap, trashy earrings.  I suppose Amber might want my, um, what - good coffee mugs?” 

And suddenly I thought “I can’t die - I don’t have enough impressive stuff to leave to my children!”  I could just picture the fight that would ensue following my death.  “Oh, I don’t want that old ratty thing - YOU take it.”  “No way, I don’t want it.  What the hell did she hold onto all that crap for anyway?” 

Me and Anna Nicole… we’d be all torn to pieces for our character flaws after we were gone. 

Fortunately, though, it’s not Parkinson’s.  And that aneurysm I thought I was having seems to have cleared up on its own, too.  Thank God.

I’m always predicting my demise.  At night while I’m lying still, I might be absolutely certain I’m having a heart attack or there is a blood clot trying to get through my brain or who knows what.  I have my husband on high alert.

“Bill?” I say.  “What.” (how can I tell he’s rolling his eyes when I’m not even looking at him?)

“Don’t let mom and Laura go through my closets.” I remind him.  “Oh, and make sure you write long, poignant letters to each of the kids and sign my name.  Tell each of them they were my favorite.  I read that in a Chicken Soup for the Soul once and thought it was a good idea.  If I die tonight, you’ll write those letters, right?” 

“Sure.” he says.  “And can I have permission to upload all those dirty picture of you to the Internet after you’re gone?  I mean, how can you be embarrassed when you’re dead?” 

“DESTROY them!  I mean it!  Once one of us is dead, there is no fall back position.  All x-rated material must be destroyed immediately.  Promise?”  He always does but I never believe him.  In many years from now, I picture my five daughters sitting around going “Wow, I never pictured mom in handcuffs with a ball gag.  Hmmm….. Who would have thought?” 

If I die, people - descend upon my husband and make him destroy ALL OF IT.  Please?  Would you do that for me?  I need to be able to count on you!

So anyway, back to my third finger on my left hand.  It’s got these tremor things going.  They have proven to be more entertaining than American Idol.  I can sit there and stare at my  hand for hours waiting for it to happen.  Once it starts, I’ll call out “Bill!  Hurry, look - it’s doing it again!” but by the time he glances over, it’s always too late.  I don’t know why I have this quest to make sure he sees it.  Probably so he won’t think I’m more crazy than he already does.

The other night he finally saw it happen.  “Wow, that’s weird.”  When we’re driving home together from work, he’ll be talking and I’ll sit there watching my finger.  “Will you stop staring at that and listen to me?” he’ll say. I don’t think he understands how intriguing it is to have a part of your body just start moving on its own.  I can’t stop watching it.

Last week, I went to get my nails done.  It was the first time since my finger-epilepsy had set in.  The nail person says “Honeee - what wrong with that finger?  It keep moving!”  I tried to explain to her the whole Parkinson’s theory and then the epilepsy concept but I think she figured I was possessed.  Evidently, she wasn’t as fascinated with it as I am.

So just imagine my surprise when I was reading your comments on my last blog post and I saw the answer!  Reader Melani makes the casual comment “Oh, on the subject of your friend Wellbutrin does it make your hands tremble?”

Doh!

It’s the medicine!  I’m not dying of Parkinson’s nor do I have finger-epilepsy!  It’s the medicine!!!

I googled it, which is always what you should do when you want to feel better about some medical condition.  Now I’m convinced that I have irreversible nerve damage.  But it’s OK because I’ll probably get rich from the class action law suit. 

How cool is that?  A mountain of money AND an entertaining third finger on my left hand!

Life doesn’t get any better than this.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS