"Mommy, what should we write on your grave when you die?" asked my sweet child on our way to school. In all fairness, death has been on all of our minds lately with the recent passing of my grandfather. An avid fisherman, 'I'd rather be fishing' is etched on his tombstone.
"I don't know, Amelia. I really haven't given it much thought. What do YOU think it should say?"
She strokes her tiny chin like she's Aristotle before announcing, "I'd rather be napping."
Oh, children. They really do say the darndest things. I give her a forced smile in the rearview mirror and reply, "Mommies get tired sometimes. It takes a lot of energy to raise a child. And a puppy. Our new puppy makes me very tired."
What I didn't have the heart to tell her was, "Mommy is mentally ill. Mommy has an imbalance in her brain that causes her to dwell on intrusive thoughts until she can hardly function. Mommy is tired because mommy's brain runs marathons everyday."
And this particular week, I'm Usain freakin' Bolt.
Let me explain: Amelia's getting her tonsils out in twelve days. To an OCD brain, a tonsillectomy is the equivalent of a toddler performing open heart surgery on the side of the road with a plastic butter knife.
I can't stop researching medical journals. I scour through case studies in the middle of the night, evaluating each and every risk in my head while watching tonsillectomy videos on YouTube. I've even read up on anesthesia experiments in young monkeys (that shit was bananas!). I've allowed two small masses of lymphoid tissue to consume my every waking thought. So yes, Amelia, mommy is tired.
I know you other mothers worry, as well---it's part of this job description. I just want so badly to be an "average" worrier; to let my daughter play at the park without first thinking of concussions, MRSA, cerebral bleeds, or rabid raccoons lurking near the monkey bars. With Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, there's always danger around the next corner; an impending sense of doom.
Ironically, if you were to look for antonyms of OCD, you would stumble upon my husband. I married a man who, on a scale of 1 to Evel Knievel, mitigates risk by popping a Tums before eating expired chicken. I watch in awe as he goes through life unaware of all its dangers---my very own antithesis. He's given Amelia a world of adventure that I cannot give, and in that, I take comfort.
Oh dearest daughter, I'd rather not be napping. I'd rather be seizing the freaking day. I don't want my gravestone to describe some frail, tired, scared woman. I want it to say, 'I'd rather be listening to Britney Spears' or 'I'd rather be eating cake batter', but it's so hard to be anything other than my OCD.
I wish I could stop being so selfish with my own worries and concerns and focus more on you, this amazing little being, but my brain circuits have gone haywire. I'm a defected mommy with the best of intentions, but oh, how I love you so. If the doctors could discard OCD like they do a set of inflamed tonsils, I'd be the first in that operating room (as long as it was steam sterilized).
Until then, I'm going to need a nap or two.