I don’t do puzzles just because I enjoy them, you know. No. I do them because I am a girl who comes from a long line of strong girls whose lives were cut too, too short by a stupid disease called Alzheimer’s and while I hope with all hope that they will find a cure before it makes its way to me, I do all of the things they say to do to help prevent this terribly ugly disease like keeping my mind sharp with puzzles and books and keeping my body active with regular exercise.

(Now, I don’t actually know who they are, but it can’t hurt to listen to them, I’m assuming.)

The one thing I’m having trouble with, of course, is keeping my stress level down.

I’m trying. So hard.

(Especially since I also come from a long line of high blood pressure. Yay genetics.)

When my mom called last week, my stress level immediately went through the roof.

She had that sound in her voice. That unsteadiness that meant you know she was holding things back. Tears, among other things. She was fighting to sound confident, to sound strong. But she wasn’t. She was scared and worried and she was going to be alone when her husband went under for emergency spinal surgery and even though she told me not to come, I was googling Thursday flights to Roanoke, Virginia because no one should be alone at times like this.

The two of us Big Worriers made small talk with the patient about Emily’s possible Justin Bieber-looking boyfriend and Jewish Day School and Israel while we waited for Dr. Danny Castellano (not really, but a very uncanny lookalike) to take him into surgery and take some spinal floaters out of his leg (I KNOW).

We BWs made small talk with each other about bad coffee and bad circulation while we waited for not-Dr. Danny Castellano to tell us that the surgery was over.

We made small talk about hummus and food allergies and synagogues and my photography while we waited for not-Dr. Danny Castellano to let us see the post-surgical patient.

Everything went well.

The big worriers exhaled. 

So, not only do I come from a long line of alzheimer’s and high blood pressure, but I come by the worry pretty honestly too.

Today I got off of the plane, finally, after spending the entire day traveling from Roanoke to Washington, DC to Toronto. I picked up my car in the remote, remote cheap lot and made my way home. I couldn’t wait to get home and get into the shower to wash the smell of both hospital and airplane off of me. I needed to empty my bladder something fierce because I have problems have a bit of an aversion to public bathrooms. I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day because I have problems am not the very best flyer. So, I was tired and hungry and doing the pee pee dance.

I ran out of my car and ran up the back steps in the garage and BAM.

Locked. 

Locked? That door is never locked. That’s how we get into the house. LOCKED?!?!

So, the first thing I did was cross my legs and sit down on the steps and cry.

And then I yelled at my husband through BBM: HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?

And then I whined on Facebook and cried a little more and crossed my legs a little more.

And then I went to pick up my key from my poor cleaning lady who felt so guilty for accidentally locking the door that we never lock.

Needless to say, I wasn’t just like…meh, things happen. 

I really wish I was the type of person who just said meh, things happen, smile and move on. 

I really need to become the type of person who just says meh, things happen, smiles, and just moves on. 

Or maybe I’ll just do double the puzzles.