In Bed With a False Prophet

I have to admit something.  I've been hanging out in a dark and fearful place for a few weeks now. 

This place is one where I imagine my husband dying at a young age (just like his father who died one year from the age he is now).  Every bump, mole, scab, and pain gets a scrutinizing, suspicious, and thorough going-over from me.  There was a legitmate one recently, which mostly explains my schlepping off to this poor choice of hangouts. 

My work in hospice bereavement also provides an abundant supply of kindle, matches, and gasoline to ignite and nourish the fire of my fears.  Sometimes, my husband has to remind me that the entire world isn't on hospice.  Everything isn't a big deal.  And this always comforts me.  At least for five seconds, and sometimes more.

I've been admitting this morbid and frankly embarrassing line of thought to a few people, lately.  Collectively, they have helped me turn on the lights, once I let them in. 

It helped to know that, at one time or another, they all had similar fears of losing someone close to them, or knew someone who felt sure they were going to die young.  Equally helpful was that none of the mentioned fears or hunches have come to fruition.

Maybe you've experienced this in your own life.  You find yourself figuratively holding your breath until you pass some heartrending milestone, like when you stayed married longer than your parents, or surpassed their age when they died, or carried a child longer than before, or you eeked by or leapt over some expectation of doom you didn't even know you had. 

This morning, one of my friends said fear is a false prophet.  It didn't resonate at first, but I kept coming back to this idea and am pretty sure she nailed it.  Yes.  That's the thing.  It's difficult to argue with it logically, because it's some ugly promise about the future.  And you just don't know.  Whatever the thing is, could happen.  But, just because you're afraid of it, doesn't make it any more likely to happen... 

I jokingly told my husband that it would probably be better if I was a polygamist (reverse-polygamist, he offered).  That way, I could spread all of the love I have for him over several husbands.  Then, the thought of losing him might not feel so threatening and he could have help with the house repairs.  "Richard, it's your turn to fix the refrigerator.  I did it last time."  He laughed, told me I was weird, and then said something about men not being secure enough to tolerate that arrangement.  I think it stopped being funny when I told him to scoot over, so we could make room for the others. 

But, the truth is, that sometimes, there is another where he doesn't belong.  This other, this false prophet, is boldly proclaiming what may never be, wildly waving his hands for credence, and convincing us that whatever is loud is true.

Thankfully, once seen and named, his gig is up.  So, clear the way, false prophet.  You cannot be trusted.  (And, have you looked in a mirror, lately?  You might want to comb your hair.)