Don’t worry; be happy?

I worry too much–no, not too much; just a lot. A heck of a lot. I worry about my future, I worry about money, I worry about my mother, her health, her job, my health, the environment, the bad weather, famine, epidemics, asteroids–yes, asteroids–and all that good stuff. I worry. That’s what I do.

Mom had a doctor’s appointment this morning and, since I’m at home now–and have been since graduation last year–I went with her to translate some and nag the doctor. Nag nag nag. I do that, too. Mom’s blood pressure is good, her thyroid is good, her lipids are good, and her colon is good. Except it’s got little “pocket” things and “it’s very important that she has good, regular bowel movements.” Her red cell count went up a little, which is good; mom’s anemic. You see, the main problem we’re having at the moment is that she’s anemic and nobody knows why. Her iron is good, B12 is good, there’s no blood loss anywhere–and yet, she doesn’t have enough red blood cells. Well then, somebody’s got to know where they are!

I read somewhere that anemia could sometimes be linked to thyroid problems. I don’t know why, but I didn’t remember that until after the doctor had left the room. Damnit. The doctor wants to send her to a hematologist, but mom doesn’t have health insurance. And specialists cost mad cash–which is essentially the root of every problem that anyone’s ever encountered…almost.

If we had money, mom would have health insurance. She’d see the specialist, and whatever problem they find would be taken care of. But we don’t have money. And so, I worry. Secretly. Very secretly. And I think that’s a problem.

Some people don’t have a problem ranting and venting and getting things out of their systems. They talk about their frustrations, their anger, their sadness, their worries. More often than not, I don’t know where to start, so I clam up. I bottle everything inside, and then, one beautiful day, out of nowhere, the dam bursts.
The dam bursts, and it’s ugly.

I like to think that I’m strong; it really helps that everybody thinks I am, too. As far as everyone’s concerned, I’ve got my feet well on the ground and my head firmly planted on my shoulders, and nothing moves me. Little do they know, just thinking about certain things can make me sob uncontrollably for the next hour or so. Sometimes, I cry myself to sleep; bet you didn’t know that! I mean for Christ’s sake, I cried during Spiderman and Monsters, Inc!

The one thing that never fails to bring me down–I’m really setting myself up for failure here–is thinking about my mom’s death. You probably think I’m crazy for thinking about that, let alone bringing it up, but I don’t believe it should be a taboo. Death is part of life; we’ve all lost someone, we’re gonna keep losing people, and, one day, we too will have to go. It’s not a secret, and I don’t think we should avoid the subject. There’s no sense in being in denial, and I’ve decided to talk about openly (don’t burst my bubble; this is my way of coping with something before it happens).

We were watching Vân Sơn–a Vietnamese variety show–this past weekend, and the theme was “Mothers.” I was fine with that until this singer came along and started singing the saddest lyrics I’ve ever heard: “We will have to say goodbye,” “When you say it, it’ll make me cry,” “It’ll be the last time I hold you near”–etc, etc. I’m gonna stop quoting it because I’m already choking up as I’m typing this, but you see where I’m going with it. I had to get up and go to the kitchen to “make lunch” so as to not cry in front of my mother.

This is another silly thing I do–or don’t do, rather: I don’t cry in front of my mother. Ever. I’ve always successfully held my tears back when she’s around, and I’m not gonna let some stupid variety show where people LIP SYNCH ruin this trend. Seriously. I’m ridiculously good at not crying in front of her, because almost every time we’re together and something warrants a good hard bawling, that “something” typically concerns her and she’s already somewhat of a mess. I’m not saying that crying is for the weak–because it’s not–but if I cry, it’ll make her believe that things are not okay; that, in fact, they’re unbelievably bad.

Does this sound stupid yet? I guess the only thing you should know in order to make sense of this is that she doesn’t think I am ever nostalgic, get sad, or worry. She doesn’t believe I do any of those things. In sum, she doesn’t think I’m human, and I think I’d rather keep it that way for now. Just for now.

I don’t want her to know that, when she passes, I will be crushed; food won’t have taste, colors will look gray, I probably won’t step out of the house for a good month at least, and everything will smell like her.

Crushed.