When you leave our neuro's office, the procedure is to grab an appointment-reminder postcard and fill it out. Then you drop it into a box. Eventually it's mailed to you. Or that's how it's supposed to go.
At our last appointment the nurse escorted us out, waving us toward the postcards. "You know the drill," she said. "You're one of our most senior patients."
Um. Yes. We are. In a good way, I like to think. In that my BBB is creeping up on eighteen and he's been fighting his CCMs for a long, long time. Thank goodness.
But I have age on the brain too. So it tripped me. Being called senior. My fortieth is creeping up. Now, I've never cared about getting older. I've always been excited by it, actually. (Oh, hello. Three words: all-you-can-eat cake and ice cream.) But forty feels important. It feels like something that's supposed to be marked. It's always about the how, though.
I knew I wanted to go as far as I could. It's forty. But Ushuaia wasn't in the cards. Then Hubby suggested Key West. To watch the sun go down on the country's southern most point. He's right. I should. I will. It's right.
|Key West's Southernmost Point|
Living with CCMs, oh hell, just living, seems to be about things always being more. More bills, more tests, more surgeries, always--ALWAYS--more. Especially when you think it can't be. So yeah, take me somewhere where I can't go more.
So I'm going. Maybe it's symbolic for me, maybe it's like some talisman- a way to say sorry, no more is something I can do. But mostly, I think it's about looking at the end of a road and knowing it's not actually an end, but a beautiful enough. So yeah, this senior is going.