YOU GET WHAT YOU ASK FOR

"You know," I said, albeit slightly nagging,"I'd love to just once get up REALLY early on a weekday morning, pack a small bag and take off for a destination unknown. Wouldn't that be romantic? Huh? What did you say dear?" I paused waiting for a response. "Nothing spectacular, maybe an overnight." He just looked at me.

I heard him during the night. Mooching; that's pretty typical for one who has always slept with one eye open anyway. maybe getting on the computer. Oh, why does he do that? He'd go back to sleep if he'd just stay in bed.
I returned to my dream. He was probably on the computer. The next sound I heard was wretching. Uh, oh.

"OK, hon?" I holler. Hope above hope that it's just the pepperonia pizza we ate WAY
too late after a family outing to Sandusky and I can go back to bed.

5:00 AM A shadow at the side of the bed tells me it wasn't pepperoni; in my
semi-conscious mind it's reminiscent of my children when they were small, needing mom. But fully awake now, I see it's my husband and it's serious.
"I need to go to emergency." and then adds, "but I can drive myself." My first impulse was to say, "Are you nuts?" But settled for, "I want to go with you. If they admit you for an emergency surgery, I want to be there." Now how did I know Surgery would be in the mix?

You know the little charts of smiley faces, to help patients indicate their pain level?
He had all the earmarks of topping out that chart by the time we reached the hospital.
As we're making our way through the early morning countryside to the local hospital which is located in a somewhat rural area, I say to mayself, "This wasn't quite what I had in mind for an early morning getaway." A word to the wise, when going to emergency and there is pain, emphasize said pain, you'll be treated much faster.
I thought of worst case scenarios as we waited in the small curtain-drawn cubicle. Heart attack? No, location of pain is wrong. An EKG ruled that out. Gall bladder?
Oh, God, stage 4 carcinoma that no one noticed. OK, now I was hedging on the ridiculous.
Down for a CT scan. Nothing significant. Bless our PCP who ordered a CT scan WITH CONTRAST. Aha! Eight hours later we have an answer. Acute apendicitis.
"Sweetheart, you could't have done this when you were 8?" Ready to burst literally, he is whisked away to surgery. Doctor, surgeon, anesthetist, all look young enough to be my kids. Maybe it's the ER lighting. He's in good hands, I tell myself. He's in God's Hands, I tell myself again.

Today he's home resting comfortably. Being watched like a hawk, I might add so he doesn't overdo.
Whosever hands he's in, Thank you thank you.
I'll just shut my mouth about early morning surprise getaways.

Still 12 after all these years

For all the buildup I enforced on myself, it didn't last nearly long enough. An email to my inbox indicated a new literary gent. I was sure I had just what she was looking for. My hands literally shook with the promise of contact. How long would I have to wait for a response? A week? Two? Maybe it didn't arrive in her box at all.

I needn't have worried. One hour. One hour for a cursory thank you for considering her and wishing me luck elsewhere. It was a little like being stood up. I had sent only a query. What can you tell from a query? And my query matched what the interview I was forwarded said she was looking for. If you're not looking for that, why put it in an interview? Did she have some magic insight into my writing and illustrating abilities?

And then it got personal; she doesn't like red hair. I'm too fat, too thin, too tall. Silly? Of course; but you do remember junior high, right. And where our work is concerned, aren't we really all still 12?