Editor’s note: This entry is the fourth in a series. To read Adam Sans Xanax from the beginning, head here.
The doctor told me that I’d have my CT scan results in 48 hours.
It’s been 72 hours and counting and I’ve heard nothing. No news is good news, right? Right? RIGHT?!
What if they’re just coming up with a delicate way of telling me that I’m going to die?
“Mr. Crowley, you’ve got an inoperable brain tumor, but the good news is that you’re not going to have to pay your insurance deductible for surgery.”
Typically when I’m laying down at night to fall asleep, I think about death. I’m not sure if it’s anxiety-related, but it’s something I do. What’s in store for us after we shuffle off this mortal coil? Is there a heaven? Worse yet, a hell?
Lately, though, I’ve just been thinking about what my wife would have to deal with if I wasn’t around. How would my parents feel? My sister.
Is my dog going to think I abandoned her? Will she even know I’m gone? After a while, will anybody?
I think I’ll call the doctor to see if he’s got any results.
“Hey, my name is Adam Crowley, and I just had a CT scan done.”
“Ahhh, Mr. Crowley the doctor is actually out of town, but your results are on his desk and he will get back to you as soon as he returns.”
Are you FUCKING kidding me?! I’ve spent 72 hours contemplating my mortality, and this jabroni doctor is probably out on some beach pounding tequila sunrises.
I guess Doc’s mid-life crisis is more important than my possible end-of-life crisis.
“When will he be back?”
“Late next week.”
“Okay, no big deal, I’m just waiting to see if this tumor is in my brain. Maybe I’ll try to lance it myself.” — Click.
One more week. I’m sure I’ll hold it together until the results come in. I’m going to go pour myself a tequila sunrise.
Number of panic attacks I’ve had today: None
Number of panic attacks this week when falling asleep: Three
Number of times I wanted to jump through the phone and attack a hospital employee: One
Today’s ‘Topic A’ on the show: Sports. Who cares?
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