Eight Months

         Sometimes she forgot how old she was.  At 41, she was still carded at the grocery store, and salespeople coming to the door would ask for her mother.  Even her own parents couldn’t distinguish her voice from those of her daughters.  “Pam, you sound like one of the kids,” they’d insist.

         Looks and feelings are two different things, though.  Sometimes she didn’t feel as young as people thought she was, especially lately.  Pam and her husband, Roy had raised three children into their teens and older; their oldest daughter was 21 years old, married, and on her own.  Their second child, also a daughter, was 18, working, attending the local community college, and engaged to a nice young man.  The baby wasn’t a baby anymore; 15 years old, a school-year away from early graduation, and taller than both of his parents. 

         For 23 years she had gotten up at 5:00, prepared breakfast for Roy, and packed his lunch.  This morning, though, she didn’t feel like getting up.  Dragging herself from the warm layers of comfort, she slipped on her robe and a pair of socks before heading to the kitchen.

         A wave of nausea hit her as she reached the landing.  Must’ve been something I ate, Pam thought, clutching the banister for support.  In the kitchen, her stomach did acrobatics as her nostrils were assaulted by the aroma of coffee brewing.  She swallowed hard to squelch the feeling.

          “You’ll have to settle for cereal today, love,” Pam announced as Roy got to the table. 

          “You okay?”

          “I’ll be fine.  Maybe something from dinner didn’t agree with me.”

          ‘What are your plans for the day?”

          “The usual Tuesday stuff…laundry, vacuum, water aerobics at 10:00; meet Heather for lunch, drop Fallon at work, and stop for groceries… that kind of stuff.”

          “Fun,” Roy teased.  Pam winced as pain gripped her lower abdomen.  “You sure you’re okay?”

          “I’ll be fine.  I’ve only felt this way lately.  Maybe I pulled a muscle at the gym,” she insisted.

          “Lately?” Roy asked, his concern rising.  “How long is ‘lately’?”

          “I dunno,” Pam replied, annoyed.  She hated for him to worry about her. 

         Six months previous, the doctor discovered Roy had a congenital heart problem.  A smaller, secondary, electro-pulse center had developed in his heart, sending a mixed message and causing the heart to beat erratically at times.  After two days in the hospital and a battery of tests, they scheduled more tests and an angioscopic procedure to visually examine the veins and heart muscle. 

         The good news was he had no blockages and his heart was in excellent shape.  The bad news was that the secondary electro-pulse center that was causing the ventricular tachycardia wasn’t visible, and the only way to find it and cauterize it to stop it from causing the problem was to stimulate it and cause the irregular rhythms again.  The problem with that route of treatment was that there was no way to be certain that adrenaline-induced stimulation would create the rhythms, and they couldn’t have a catheter in the heart muscle ready to locate and cauterize the center if they had to recreate the problem by exercise.

          “Our best course of treatment is medication to lower your borderline high blood pressure.  This will control the pace at which the heart beats and keep the rhythm nice and even,” the doctor had explained.

         Roy had only experienced a few irregular heartbeats since then.  He’d joined a fitness center and was exercising regularly.  He’d lost 25 pounds, lowered his cholesterol by a whopping 102 points in the first three months, and was coming to terms with his diagnosis of diabetes.  The last thing Pam wanted was for Roy to worry about her.

         Tears filled Pam’s eyes as she looked up at Roy.  “What is it,” he asked gently.

          “I just don’t want you to worry about me.  I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

         As Pam stood up she was overwhelmed by dizziness and collapsed in Roy’s arms.  “I think you should skip the gym today and go see the doctor instead,” he said firmly.

          “I guess so,” she replied weakly.

         Roy looked at his pocket calendar.  “I have a meeting at 10 but I can cancel it if you want me to take you.”

          “No, I’ll be fine.  The doctor is by Heather’s.  I can have Fallon drive me and Heather can meet us there.”

          “Call me if you want me to come home,” Roy insisted.

          “I will,” she promised.

         Roy finished his morning ritual, testing his glucose level and eating a balanced breakfast before heading to work. 

         Pam was able to arrange a 9:15 appointment.  At the doctor’s office, she filled out paperwork and waited.  Her daughters, usually joking around and giggling, were still and quiet, worried about what her examination would reveal.

         After performing a complete physical examination, the doctor consulted Pam’s chart and raised an eyebrow.  “Is that the good eyebrow or the bad eyebrow?” Pam asked, trying to break the tension.

          “It all depends on how you look at it,” the doctor replied with a smile.

         Pam looked at him expectantly and raised an eyebrow of her own when he gave her the news; she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

         Her daughters met her at the door.  “What’s wrong, Mom?” they asked in unison, expecting the worst.

         Pam’s tears broke loose and a sob escaped her throat as her daughter’s embraced her.  She couldn’t get a word out all the way to the car.  Finally, she retrieved her phone and dialed Roy’s number; both daughters looking on, anxious with concern.

         Roy answered on the first ring.  “What’d he say?”

          “He gave me 8 months,” Pam began; her sense of humor returning.  “Then I’ll be cured.”

         Heather and Fallon looked at each other; their confusion and trepidation melting as they realized what was going on.

         Heather smiled impishly, “I call a baby brother!” she exclaimed.

          “Me too,” Fallon chimed in.


Contenst entry for Writer's Cramp:  Write a story or poem that begins with the line "Sometimes she forgot how old she was."

995 words (MS Word count)