Happily I report that my partner cleared his third prostate biopsy. No cancer cells
found. Wherever that cancer is hiding, it hasn’t grown so it’s not aggressive; we
continue with “watchful waiting.”
We are so very lucky.
However.
I’m worried I’m going to kill the Guppins. By accident.
Bottle of deadly chemicals hidden behind toilet. Forget to take the pit out of her
peach. What if she swallows her hairclip? Razor-sharp soup can lid in recycling.
Broken wine glass piece missed by vacuum. My apartment trim (substantial)
flaking lead paint (source of mysterious small objects in baby’s mouth?). Directly
outside of my apartment door, a steep, narrow staircase to the boiler room
(heretofore referred to as "Under the Asbestos”).
Sir Dick’s entire house.
Of course, I’m just as likely to accidentally kill myself.
Sleep deprivation–induced driving accident (this, apparently, is more dangerous
for transit employees than drinking or doing drugs, so I’m doomed). Total
breakdown of mind and soul (obvious reasons). Break neck on treadmill at Y
(just joined, out of practice). Slip in tub on extra stomach flab. Have heart attack
(probably on treadmill at Y). Killed by vigilante mothers at Dufferin Grove Park for not
following sharing protocol.
Many many concerns on this day. But there is humour. There is humour in my
heart. HUMOUR. Not tumour.
-Drama Mama
No comments:
Post a Comment