No one could say that useful trait of denial ever dodged my family. I remember my sister’s starry-eyed rendition of “I Enjoy Being a Girl” for her 7th grade talent show – in spite of her very modest vocal skills.
Or maybe it’s not denial, but cheery optimism that kept us plowing forward, regardless of the multi-colored Vegas-sized warning signs along the way.
Years ago, when my husband fell, tearing every bit of his quad muscle from his kneecap, and breaking the other leg two weeks before our long-anticipated week at Cape Cod, I saw no reason to cancel the trip. Sure we could go! The house we’d rented was all one floor, after all. . . . How I envisioned our trips to the beach I can’t recall, but we did end up canceling.
Tomorrow we should be leaving for three days with our daughter and her family not far from the National Seashore, in Eastham.
Except we’re not.
I spent last Tuesday in the Emergency Room, clutching my stomach, never to feel fresh air again until Friday afternoon.
This made little sense. I had spent that morning in my aerobics and strength-training class, marching, reaching, waving weights about. Then home for lunch, and off for my afternoon eye appointment. That was where things started to go south, but I had company coming the next day and so soldiered on to the grocery store.
I barely made it home. After My Guy and I determined itwasn’t the noontime romaine, and it wasn’t going away anytime soon, we jetted to the ER. Cat Scans, four days of IV, an ultrasound, graduating to a liquid diet, and then finally home on Friday.
But would you believe – of course you would – that I was sure that I’d be in travel-worthy shape by this week. I mean, all I was going to do was sit on the beach. . .