I went to the doctor today for a follow-up visit to gauge how well my meds are working out for me.
(God is good, and antidepressants aren't bad. Is my motto.)
As the nurse gave me the once-over before my doctor saw me, she asked a few typical questions.
"So, how are you coping?"
I have absolutely no idea how to answer this question. No idea. It's so vague. It changes by the moment. Even to say "okay" feels like a farse. There are no words, but I tried to piece together an answer to explain my widowed life in a nutshell.
That's just a bad question to start with. Not her fault, just not okay for me. But moving on.
"And when did your husband die?"
"Oh, that's right on Christmas Eve," she said casually, and made note on my medical chart.
Um, no it isn't.
My mom and I cast a split-second side glance at each other, just enough to furrow our eyebrows and silently say, "What the...? Did she just...? What just happened?"
And suddenly I got the giggles.
There I was, to be evaluated for my anxiety, grief, depression, and sleeplessness, and I'm nearly snorting to contain my laughter. She was taking my blood pressure, and I was clasping my hand over my mouth.
My mom busied herself with the wall mural. Ever the queen of the straight face.
It was one of those tense situations where something goes slightly awry at just the right moment, and laughter is inevitable. Might as well add delirium to the list, Nurse. This widow can't stop giggling.
So, for the record, December 23 is not Christmas Eve. It just isn't. Never will be.
(Hey. Guess what. I laughed today.)