elfs | When Moms let things fester.

A couple of months ago I blogged about my costochondritis, a nasty arthritis-like inflammation of the lining of my sternum that, basically, hurts a lot when it flares up but otherwise doesn't interfere with my quality of life. It's been quiescent for the most part since the attack in late April.

But not in my mother's mind! I told her about it, and it festered there, deep in her imagination, until it blossomed this afternoon, resulting in a phone call. "Are you sure it's not your heart? Have you had the same doctor? What tests did they run? Are you sure? What treatments do they take for it? How long have you had it? Can it spread? What if it does? Are you sure your doctor has the right skills to diagnose it?" She angsted and anguished about this for half an hour. On and on and on.

"Look," I told her. "I'm forty. I have gray hair, bifocals, hay fever and psoriasis." I damn near told her about the Viagra prescription. "On the other hand, I'm much more healthy than most of my peers, eat conscientiously, can hike, swim and ride a bike for miles, and sleep seven-and-a-half to eight hours a night. I'm fine for my age."

"But, what if you die?" she asked.

Grief. Mothers! I'm glad she's worried about me, I really am. But if she wants to worry about us, she can worry about our finances and the state of the economy. My body is not about to collapse anytime soon.