I often think author and activist Arundhati Roy introduced me to mortality in her novel, The God of Small Things. Since reading her haunting, poetic prose when the volume was published in 1997, I have had her words – Thirty-one. Not old. Not young. But a viable die-able age – ricocheting around in my psyche ever since.
It follows me when I travel, even for short distances, and it causes me to be leery of making long-range plans. It reminds me to think (but not speak of) hidden prayers no better than anxious superstition.
But we have reached that viable die-able age when I have to tell my husband to hold off on booking that pricey vacation he’s been fixating on until after I get the results of the annual mammogram.
Now that we are well into our viable die-able years, we have to plan accordingly.
The night before only offers a fitful sleep. Nerves, I think, wake me up, prodding me to reread the same two chapters of a book I’ve been belaboring before exhaustion reclaims my consciousness. In the morning, I will find a half-charged phone on the floor where it had flopped for the last time. The page I was reading is still alive as the screen lights up in my hand.
I will choose my clothes as if I were fate’s bride. Something old from my daughter; something new from my son; something borrowed from my husband, something blue from someone who has gone before me.
I pretend this works despite the time a phone rang telling me they needed more pictures … and more tests … and then scans closer together until it was all fine again a year later.
“It WAS fine,” I think, “but it WON’T BE someday.”
I wish I were able to tamp down such tensions. I know worry doesn’t prevent bad things from happening any more than it helps good things to flourish. It’s just anxiety sending thoughts in circles.
I count how many traffic lights I have to stop at along the way to the appointment, but I don’t know what to make of the number.
I find a parking spot right away, which is unusual. I chose it instead of winding my way to the top of the parking structure.
When I take a seat with a receptionist, the place starts to warm in a way I am not used to. The woman informs me that we are birthday twins, although several years apart.
All of the business questions she asks after that seem more personal and pleasant. When I get up to head to a waiting room, she asks me if I have plans for OUR birthday. I tell her my husband has out-of-town business, but that he’s asked me to go with him.
“If it’s a good place, you should go and enjoy!”
I thank her and tell her I think I will.
And then I think of her as I put on the robe, and sit in one waiting room to get squished, and another waiting room to get scanned. I think of her on the way home, and when I park and notice an email has arrived in my inbox, heralding test results that may not have been reviewed by any medical professionals.
And I think of her when I get the All Clear.
But I say a silent thanks when I finally start to make plans.
