… and Terry’s kidney is absolutely fine, nothing to see here, move along please and all that jazz. All of the blood results were in the “best they could possibly be” range, and now that’s been confirmed I can go ahead and admit that I? Was totally freaked out by yesterday’s test. Not that I really thought there was anything wrong with Terry, I hasten to add: this is a man who takes eight gym classes a week and goes rock climbing on the weekends, so it was pretty clear he was in fighting form, but… it was the date. The date worried me. The universe, you see, has a funny way of messing with me, and making sure that what SHOULD be happy dates in my life become memorable for all the wrong reasons.
December 15, 2003 – Terry and I get engaged. Whoopee!
December 15, 2005 – Terry has a kidney transplant. Damn.
And, OK, the transplant was technically a “good” thing. But it’s all relative, isn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t such a good day compared to, say, all of those days in our lives when Terry HADN’T needed a transplant. I guess what I’m trying to say here is that getting a transplant you badly need = good, actually needing a transplant in the first place = a bit of a bummer, to be honest. Could’ve totally lived without that one, thanks all the same, Universe.
(December 15th is also Terry’s “Name Day” in Greece, but that has no real relevance to this story. Just thought I’d throw it in for good measure, though.)
But it doesn’t stop there. For instance:
Boxing Day 2003 = the day Terry was diagnosed with end stage kidney failure, and a little bit of my sanity shattered forever.
Christmas Day 2005 = the day he got out of hospital.
Again, getting out of hospital is clearly a good thing. But what would’ve been even BETTER would’ve been if he’d never actually had to be in there in the first place. See?
Anyway, this strange habit of us spending meaningful or important days in our lives in hospitals has made me a little bit superstitious. I should say here that I’m not normally superstitious in the slightest - show me a ladder, and I will happily walk under it (something will probably fall on me, mind you, but that’s just par for the course with me) – but in respect of what we’ve come to call “That whole weird thing with the dates”, I will admit to just a smidge of superstition.
Which is why, when Terry and I had the following conversation a couple of months ago, I was left feeling ever so slightly concerned:
TERRY: I got my next appointment in for the transplant clinic. It’s for March 10th.
ME: But! But! That’s my birthday! OMG, That Whole Weird Thing With the Dates will happen again!
Two days later…
TERRY: So, I called the hospital and asked them to change the date of my appointment.
ME: Oh, you didn’t need to do that. [Thinks: you totally did, though] When did they move it to?
TERRY: March 31st
ME: So… they moved the appointment from my birthday to our wedding anniversary? Almost as if they are hell bent on doing the tests on a Significant Date?
TERRY: Oh. Yeah, I guess!
ME: We. Are. So. Screwed.
And so, while yesterday was a lovely day for us, and we were happy to be celebrating our 2nd anniversary (thanks for all the good wishes, by the way – much appreciated) there was also a small part of my brain that was, well, freaking the hell out, until the moment we got back from the restaurant and Terry checked the results online.
And all was well.