I had my MRI night before last. The neurologist’s office called at 8:00 this morning to say that he had ordered a CAT scan, and that the CAT scan people would call me. The CAT scan people called at 9:00, and said to get there ASAP, that they would work me in. This made me wonder what the dickens the MRI showed—or else didn’t show.
Based upon her terror of cancer (as opposed to her experience as a nurse) and her subsequent tendency to diagnose it at the drop of a hat, Peggy thinks I have bone cancer. She would not have shared this particular bit of information if we hadn’t been fighting at the time. Fortunately, Peggy’s fears are seldom my fears, so they don’t affect me except to make me sad that she has them.
Even if her direst prediction is right, death scares me mostly because she would have to carry on without me. Maybe I would be scared for me too if I really believed I was dying, but I think I would mostly worry about her and feel guilty that I was abandoning her. This is not because she couldn’t make it on her own (and even find satisfactions that she would not otherwise have known), but because it would be hard for her to do so. Our marriage has been through a lot during these 37 years, but it has generally gotten better since I stopped having affairs, and I would even go so far as to say that it’s pretty good now. This means that another thing that would make it hard to die would be knowing that I didn’t try as hard as I should have to deserve Peggy.
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