It turns out that my husband’s illness is killing me. My cholesterol is through the roof and my doctor says that it’s not my diet that’s causing it, but stress. Stress. And as I look back on my life, I realize that I’ve been stressed for a decade now.
My mother’s illness and death, handling her estate, my grad degree, the job that followed that, and now my husband’s dementia. It seems that everyone on earth has been telling me to go get a therapist—and her advice? Leave my husband.
My dear friend who came to visit us said the same. Leave him. Forget those silly vows, get out now. And I have to admit, I thought about it. And thought about it. And cried about it. And prayed about it. And I asked for a sign. And the universe sent me a sign. What was it?
Are you f-ing kidding me? A peacock? That’s it?
The universe hates me. There is no other explanation. I’m being mocked. By. The. Universe.
But back to stress. Apparently my cholesterol is so high that it shoots off the allotted space on the graph. Everything else looks good.
Questions not to ask your cute-as-pie lender: If I run away and default on my loan, what will happen to me? I’ll never be able to return? Anything else? How far is the long arm of the law?
With all due respect, what kind of stupid sign is that?