Tumored Drivel

I may have a brain tumor.

When I got pregnant for the first time, I wanted to do everything perfectly.  Among the many good-mom steps I took was to stop drinking coffee.  I liked coffee, but it was not that big a deal to stop.  I drank yogurt smoothies instead, because I was pretty sure that was a good-mom drink.

After two days with no coffee, I developed a headache.

I get a lot of headaches, and they come and they go.  No big deal.

This headache did not go.  It stayed.

It got worse.  It got so bad that I didn’t leave the house on the third and fourth days . . . I just laid on the couch and felt sorry for myself.  How unbelievably unfair that I waited all this time to get pregnant and then the moment I get pregnant?  I am struck down with a brain tumor.  An angry vicious brain tumor that was tunneling its way through my softish brain tissue and knocking on my skull.

I thought I was dying.  I sent up little prayers that whatever evil mass was working its way through my brain?  It would progress slowly enough that the baby could be born before I died.  I wept bitter tears of anger and sorrow for the child I would never know.

No, I did not go to the doctor.  That would have been all sensible.

And then on the 5^th day, the headache began to fade.  And with the lessening pain came a certain amount of lucidity . . . tappity tappity . . .Google . . . tappity tappity . . . caffeine withdrawal headaches.

Sigh.

I did not have a brain tumor.  I was an addict.

I was going to live.

But the baby?  Was going to have an idiot for a mother.

Almost twelve years later?  I discover that I am once again (still?) an idiot.

I drink two cups of coffee every morning.  This morning, I drank one cup of coffee because we have guests and I poured them coffee and then the pot was empty.

No biggie, right?

And then we all piled into our cars and headed out for the day.

And I got a brain tumor.

Something about these brain tumor headaches makes me incapable of rational thought, because no part of my brain said, “Hey, I bet you would feel a lot better if you had your second cup of coffee.”

That would have been a helpful suggestion, but it was not made.

And so I had a headache . . . a blinding, spots before my eyes, ringing in my ears, need to take a nap, too much spit in my mouth, might have to vomit headache.  Like a migraine, but more brain tumory.

And we were out in the hot bright sun, and I thought I was going to die.

Except I didn’t.  I just kept living.  Which sucked.

I dug in my purse and swallowed all of the pain medication I found there . . . and also a few sticky old jelly beans.  They turned out to be coconut-flavored . . . way gross and not medicinal at all.  Ick.

No improvement.  I was still dying.  No one noticed.

And then, at about 2:00 in the afternoon, Mark bought me a cup of coffee.

All casually he handed it to me, “Here, babe.”

And then?  Miraculously?  As I sipped the coffee?  I was cured!

There was still an echo of pain, a memory of threatened death, a whiff of agony . . . but the brain tumor receded.

And as I sipped the coffee and my brain’s wheels unclogged themselves from the tumor’s fibrous grasp, I thought to myself all coherently, “I bet this fucking headache was because I didn’t have enough coffee this morning.”

Sigh.

I do not have a brain tumor.  I am an addict.

And my daughters have an idiot for a mother.

I worry sometimes that one day I will actually get a brain tumor.

And then I will die.

Holding a cup of coffee in my hand, all puzzled.

I am all alone in the house for the first time today.  We spent the day doing a bazillion touristy things with Mark’s sister and her family.  Now they are all out at the lake for an hour.

After a day with the relatives?

I have come to the conclusion (brain tumor aside) that I have used up my supply of small talk.

I had hoped to have enough small-talk to live out my days, but I have run out, apparently.

That would be a bummer if I cared.

Which strangely, I do not.

That’s weird.  I used to care about making a good impression on Mark’s family.

But now, I am all uncaring and silent.

I should Google that . . . running out of small-talk for use with husband’s family members.

I probably have a brain tumor.