I have to rewrite my life story.
When I was in grade school, a teacher made us do an utterly morbid exercise–we had to write our life story, up until our death! For some reason, I wrote that I died of breast cancer in my 50s. The age seemed like a long way off, and the cancer…I have no explanation for it.
Today, I realized that I sent that signal out to the universe. I went to see the doctor, and there were talks of possible cysts, and fear gripped its clammy hands over me. Was this my doing? Was my story coming true? (Blame this thought on my having read The Secret.)
Of course, I was being melodramatic. I’m due for a test or two in a couple of weeks, but the doc wasn’t worried, so I guess I shouldn’t be. But I’m convinced that I should send out a positive signal.
So here goes. My new ending is, “And then she lived forever.”
Nah. I wouldn’t want that. I’d much prefer, “She lived to a ripe old age, as healthy as can be. That is, until she passed peacefully in her sleep.”
0 Comments
Add Comment