Sleep eludes. Is it because I'm still waiting for MRI results from last Friday, and it seems like I should have heard something by now? I'm less concerned when I consider that the doctor would have contacted me sooner with bad news than with good. Can't help but wonder if the Century City neurologist will call with, "This is your brain. This is your brain hot off the griddle, slathered with butter and swimming in maple syrup."
Tomorrow (well, later this afternoon) the body gets tested again, running on a Beverly Hills treadmill with sticky patches all over my skin, connected with wires to a machine that will measure my heart. This is what happens when your father dies of a myocardial infarction in his mid-50's: you are automatically added to the high-risk list. From the time I turned 30, they've reminded me of The Risk. Forget the fact that I've been at a healthy weight for 7 years straight, never mind that I don't drink or smoke or use drugs. No matter how often I work out or how much oatmeal I eat...
Dad was an obese, hypertense, depressed, whiskey-drinking, cigar-smoking insomniac.
I'm a 5'3", 127-pound, 110/65, sober non-smoker. But I should probably cheer up and get some shut-eye.
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