I'm staring at my phone. Willing it to ring. Urging it to vibrate. Remembering when I tried to bend spoons with my mind as a child after seeing Uri Geller do it on The Mike Douglas Show. And yeah, having pretty much the same result now as I did then, which is to say not a very good one. Still.
Focus. Let your mind gooooooo annnnnnddddd ... RING!
Son of a bitch!
Now I'm screaming in my head, hoping she can hear me lo these many state lines away. "callllllllllll ... NOW!! ..... NOW!!! .......... NOW!!!!"
She is Diane Lamb, Managed Care Specialist at the University of Virginia Health System and she is now the most important person in the world as far as we are concerned. Diane will tell us how much Ethan's surgery will cost us. She will also tell us how much our insurance will cover and, hopefully, what internal organs Dr. Kesser may take in trade for his services. Man, if she says "body fat" it's ears for everybody, on me.
She is Diane Lamb, the last waypoint before we can schedule Ethan's surgery, and we are desperately in need of some good news. Hasn't been remarkably unremarkable of late. Over the past few weeks we've managed to break several hundreds of dollars worth of lawn and garden equipment. Plus the riding mower died. Plus the water pump in the minivan blew up. Plus the coffee maker went to play on a farm with a bunch of other coffee makers where it could run free all day.
Plus lots of other unexpected crap happened that, all told, will end up costing us much more money than we'd care to think about. But besides that, this season brings other new and recurring feelings of dread. This time last year Sandi's mom was diagnosed with cancer. She died shortly after. My father died around this time of year quite a few years ago. His birthday was on Halloween. I just learned that a (very cool and amazing) cousin was diagnosed with cancer and is not expected to live past a few weeks, if she's alive now. Sandi will have to postpone her entry into school due to a delay in the selling of her mother's house. We had to cancel our holiday vacation plans for financial reasons. The days are shorter. The weather is colder. The forecast is for a harsh, snowy winter. Death is all around. Unless you're our crabgrass. Seriously? I just want to lock myself in my room, eat Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies and listen to The Cure until Spring comes again.
And here I sit like a jackass staring at this cheap Motorola cell phone -- the one I just got, the back panel of which broke off within a few days and which Verizon will not replace -- mind-begging for Diane to call, to return my calls. Not for us, but for the physical safety of that obnoxiously perky bitch who works at the Acme and apparently just loves this time of year. Yeah, why don't you take your "crisp air" and pound it up your pooper, Bonnie, you fucking cow. I swear to god, one more "don't you just love this time of year?" and there'll be a clean-up in aisle 10 all righty. Shut your mouth and put the lotion in the basket.
Son of a bitch!
"If you are irritated by every rub, how will you be polished?" -- Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
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