i might be dying

I mean, we’re all dying, and with each passing moment we’re just that much closer to death. And having made that cheerful point, let me be specific.

It was about 4 a.m. and I was in bed. I woke up because my foot (my left one) was really itchy. Like seriously itchy, yo. How itchy? Itchy enough to wake me up, that’s how itchy. So I was there in bed, scratching my foot, and I thought to myself, “Self, you might as well get up and go to the bathroom because that way maybe you won’t have to go again when it’s light outside and you can sleep later.” And yes, I do think about the timing of my bladder in reference to sleep. You want to know why? Because I’m turning into an old lady. It’s so neat. Anyway, I got up and did my thing and then went back to bed and I arranged the blankets to my satisfaction (you want to know something about me? my blankets must be orderly or it makes me angry and I cannot sleep… isn’t that neat? I know.) and I curled up on my left side. Because that’s how I do. But I didn’t stay that way for long though, because when I curled up, I felt a pain and I said “Ow!” and I rolled over on my back to inspect the source of my ouchiness. On my abdomen, over to the left, there was a spot that felt bruised. I thought it was weird, but there wasn’t any way I was turning on the light to see if I did have a bruise, so I rolled over onto my right side (I cannot sleep on my back) and went back to sleep.

This morning after I got up and put medicine in my dog’s ears (she always has ear infections and it’s great) and started a pot of coffee, I did the logical thing and started poking at my abdomen to see if it was still all hurty. It was. So I walked over to the mirror in the hallway and lifted the hem of my shirt to see if I could find a bruise. Nope. No bruise. So then I started poking at myself again while looking in the mirror because, I don’t know, it made sense at the time. And then I did what any grown up would do: I called my mom.

“Mom,” I said, “I don’t know, but I think there’s something wrong with me.”

She was nice and did not laugh.

I continued. “I have this spot under my ribcage, like not under my ribcage, I mean it’s not underneath, like my heart or something, it’s lower, like there’s my bottom rib and then there’s the rest of me? It hurts. But not all the time, only when I touch it. Is that bad? Should I see a doctor?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “maybe you should look it up on the internet.”

“I can’t look it up on the internet. If I look it up on the internet, I will be convinced I’m dying of cancer by lunchtime.”

“I know. That’s why I was joking.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Should I call the doctor?”

“No. Maybe if it’s still bothering you tomorrow.”

“I mean, it’s not really bad. Only when I touch it.”

“Well don’t touch it. And don’t look anything up on the internet.”

“Okay.”

So then of course I turned to Caryn and she said “I think you’re pregnant.”

I am not pregnant. Even though I did have an irrational crying jag the other day and then I ate some marshmallows. But I have a couple of theories:

1. My dog bodyslammed me and I have forgotten about it, because it’s such a common occurrence that I can’t possibly remember every single time it happens.

2. I have a tumor.

I’m sure it’s one or the other.

In other news, before I die, I would like to stop having problems with stupid WordPress. I have given up on my comments not being dirty rotten whores (and by that I mean that sometimes after pressing the “Submit Comment” button everything disappears, not the comments people write), but I have faith that things will work out okay over on the sidebar. Who is smart about widgets?