At dinner David says, “Oh, now I remember what that other phone message was. It was your doctor’s office.”
“Yeah?” I say.
He chews his spaghetti and swallows. It is very good spaghetti, and it cost us $7.96 because it is Restaurant Spaghetti. Quite affordable, really, for Restaurant Spaghetti, and worth every cent, because the girls are liking this new restaurant. We have never dared take them here before, because it is dark inside and there are roaring fireplaces to fall into and winged upholstered chairs to throw up on.
I press him to remember the message. “What did the doctor’s office say?”
He pauses and glances heavenward, unintentionally. “They said…ummm…I think just to call them at a certain number.”
I look into my Restaurant Salad. A dark trickle of balsamic vinegar snakes its way down a leaf of baby spinach. “They didn’t say anything else? Didn’t say why?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He looks chagrined. “I’m sorry I don’t remember what else they said.”
“They didn’t say my tests were okay?” I have always worried about tests of all varieties.
“Oh. You had that thing–”
“Yeah–”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says reassuringly. “They were probably just calling to tell you that.”
“Usually no news is good news. I don’t like vague news. Were they vague?”
He considers this carefully. His face takes on the familiar pained look I have learned to identify as his there are no right answers in this lifetime expression. “They were…they sounded…you know…I’m sure it’s fine.”
We finish our Restaurant Food. I try not to wince when the bill comes. He gallantly whisks it away from me, saying, “You know, this really wasn’t that much more expensive than the diner.” (Note: It was more expensive than the diner, but tonight, we wanted very much to be a Carefree Family Who Goes to Restaurants.)
We go home. He picks up the phone and holds it a safe distance from me. He knows I break into hives if I accidently brush up against it.
“Do you want me to check the messages?”
I nod.
He plays our messages on speakerphone. I can feel internal hives popping out all over my spleen.
There it is: the one from the doctor’s office. “Hi. This is a message for Jennifer Mattern. Ah…[hesitation, several very long moments pass] Jennifer, please call the office at 555-DEAD, extension D-I-E.”
“Ooh, that sounds bad,” I say. “Play it again, Sam.”
“It doesn’t sound bad.”
“Play it again. Listen to how she hesitates. That’s not good.”
He indulges me and plays the message again. “Hi. This is a message for Jennifer Mattern. Ah…[hesitation, several very long moments pass] Jennifer, please call the office at 555-REALLY-REALLY-DEAD, extension U-R-TOAST.”
“It sounds fine,” he says. “Just routine.”
“Death is routine. It happens every day. This is worse. This is BAD DEATH. This is BAD MOON ON THE RISE. Her tone said it all. Did you hear how long she held that pause? The dread in her voice? The faint stutter as she remembers that I have a husband and two small children and an elderly dog and a moose dog with separation anxiety? Did you hear that?”
He hangs up the phone. “You’re fiiiiine.”
“She was vague. Supervague. Extra-sharply-cuttingly vague.”
Sophie runs into the room, a pants-less town messenger. “HANNAH MADE A POOPIE ON THE POTTY. IT’S A REALLY BIG ONE.”
“Will you wipe?” I ask him. “I am going to sit here and ponder my waning mortality for a moment.”
He is eager to take me up on the offer. They exit.
I risk hives (Yes I’ll have my Death with Hives on top, please! Thank you!) and pick up the phone. I dial the number that the Grim Reaperess R.N. left. The answering service person picks up, because it’s off-hours.
“Hi…I got a message…I thought…is there any way I could leave a message for a certain mailbox?”
She sounds like she’s just inhaled a lot of pot and doesn’t want to let it go. “I…can’t…do that. Can’t…access. The system.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll phone the Death Star in the morning.”
I don’t say that but I think it. I laugh in the face of Death! I think of Star Wars cinematography in the face of Death!
Then I think some more about Death. Death! Death! I try to think of some good death poems. All I can come up with on the spot is, Do not go gently into the good night!
I think about this Do not go gently stuff. When that poet guy said, “Do not go gently into the good night,” he surely did not mean, Throw the empty hand soap dispenser at the wall again and worry more about money and generally continue being a whining sad shrewish ungrateful escapist pessimistic neurotic balding human being.
I must work on this. At the very least I need to fill up the soap dispenser and come up with a good Death Code Word to supply the doctor’s office with. I think my insurance pays for Death Code Words.
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This post is uncannily timed!
This month, May, marks 30 years since the release of the greatest, most iconic event in the history of cinematic movie-making ever in the world, EVER!
Yes, that’s right: STAR WARS!
And you go right ahead and talk Death Stars and Star Wars cinematography… it’s like cosmic Force karma or something, rising up from the depths of your inner Jedi, showing you the Way.
To paraphrase Yoda’s immortal words:
“Fear leads to anger; anger leads to spaghetti dinners; spaghetti dinners lead to benign tumors!”
Or something like that.
Simon’s kind of a nerd, isn’t he?
Giggling at Mom on a wire!
“He knows I break into hives if I accidently brush up against it.”
I hear ya sister! I thought I was the only one who hated phones that much. As for poetry…John Donne’s “Death be not Proud” would work here as well.
(Simon, don’t listen to them. I think they work for the Dark Side.)
Geez, am I the only one that is concerned, right along with you?
So I guess now it’s spaghetti dinners rather than cinnamon buns that equal death?
At any rate, make sure to keep us posted when you find out that everything’s fine, okay?
Don’t worry, they’re just calling to tell you you’re pregnant.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me…
I’m totally going to be the Grim Reaperess R.N. for Halloween.
Keeping my fingers crossed for you. Hope everything turns out OK.
I’m with them — in knowing that everything is going to be OKAY.
It’s Dylan Thomas. And the title of the poem is “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” (and it’s one of my favorites.)
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
OK -so you have to tell us what happened!?! I know all about fear over medical tests. This month I have already been through a colonoscopy to rule out colon cancer (whcih, thankfully, it did) and on Friday I will have my first breast MRI. I am also getting a genetic test done for the breast cancer mutations in a week or two. I know all about mortality lately. I hate it. When did we get so “old”? What will it be like when we are older?
Mom on a Wire: I much prefer the term: geek. But yes.
Geo: totally!
Thank you HIPPA for the ambiguous messages from medical staff. I hate the phone; I hate fleshing out my certain doom waiting by the damn thing.
I love, however, that they didn’t know why they called in the first place.
It reminds me of the opening line: “Why are you here today?” Um, ’cause you told me that I needed a follow-up appointment.
So glad Ms. Dirty Job isn’t a knockin’ on your door.
You are precious.
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Have a great week!
Judd
Hey, Jenn, I have a great one.
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
- John Donne
Have you ever seen “Wit” (starring Emma Thompson)?
It’s a movie I can’t describe, really… but it makes you think A LOT.
But, hang in there. You see, I’m a doctor. And I’m prone to panic. And I rush into my doctor’s office, and I’m ever so convinced Im going to die (slowly, painfully, cancerously). And you know what? She got really upset for me stealing her time. And she had a good laugh.
Jeez.
But I root for you.
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