I tend not to go to the doctor when something is wrong; I will muscle through the pain until it goes away. Do not mistake this for some strong-stoicism because I will complain every minute that the pain is there. It was this anti-stoicism that landed me in the hospital just a few days before my son Alexander's third birthday.
My son told my husband recently that my husband's 'runway was getting a bit short.' (He was diplomatic enough not to comment on mine!) I've thought a lot about that statement and I don't want to get to the end of my runway regretting that I didn't do something. The thought's been cropping up on a daily basis as I watch the hospice caregivers change shifts while they care for our next door neighbor who has terminal cancer. I've wondered what's going through his mind.
My birthday was coming up. You know how that goes. If your children are teenagers and you've been with your significant others a long time, you're probably not going to be the center of attention you might have been thirty years ago. Your family's attitude towards your birthday probably is -- what's that French word? -- oh right, lame.