My mother has had difficulty with her thyroid her whole life. Being the way she is, she put off her own health care to worry about feeding her children, and making sure everything was squared away on the homefront.

Time went by, and her thyroid got worse. About 6 or 7 years ago, the doctor told her that she had a goiter, and at some point, it would have to be removed. "Great", she thought, "let's get that sucker outta there." "No, no.", the doctor said, "let's let it get worse." (in so many words). So here we are, this many years later, still dealing with doctors and insurance companies.

She went in last week to get biopsied, and I fell to peices. I could not, at first, understand why I was so depressed. I know my mother. My mother has done battle with dragons... This was nothing... right? I called her before she left for the doctor's office, just to let her know I was praying with my fingers crossed, hoping those things wouldn't cancel each other out. I had to explain to God that I was not trying to fool him.

My heart was breaking. I was so worried. What if... what if... what if.... I couldn't bear to even think the words. I couldn't talk to anyone about it, since it's been a little over a year since my husband's mom was taken by cancer. Plus, I knew in my heart everything was okay. I could not cave in to this little monster. The worry monster. The little nagging creature who keeps you up nights when you really need sleep.

My worry manifested in other ways. I decided to occupy myself by going into storage and selling some old books that were in there collecting years and dust. I figured we could use the money and I could take my mind off my mom troubles. My husband watched our daughter as I set forth to collect and transport about 150 books, of various heft, to the used book store. It took about 3 hours total and it was about 106 degrees outside, with the heat index.... never leave out the heat index. Anyway, long story long, I ended up getting 17 dollars for my books. SEVENTEEN DOLLARS for about 9 years worth of reading.

That did it. I became hysterical. I was breathing through tears and snot before I even made it out of the parking lot. I cursed God... As if that ever works. I made fifteen dollars an hour at my old job and I never had to work in sweltering heat. It was ridiculous. Blah, blah, blah. I got home and broke down in sobs as my husband cradled our daughter and gave me the "I got nothing" look. I finished my tirade and went outside and plopped down on the ground to get my bearings. I realized I had no choice but to feel sorrow and dread, some of the time, regardless of my attitude.

My father worries terribly about my mother. I worry about my mother. I am sure she worries about us. That is what you do with people you love. My husband worried about my emotional health that day, I am sure. My little baby daughter looked a little perplexed, even. We all had a day, and we recovered. That is the way we will continue to do it til the world stops spinning. But, come on, SEVENTEEN DOLLARS. There was a lot of good stuff in there. The jerks.