A Phone Call

The majority of my phone calls are fairly routine.Some people like my mom, Cathy, Carly and Will, I talk to every day where we leave off the pleasantries and get right to the purpose of the call. Sometimes the calls end with "I love you" or "Thanks for calling" or "I can do that." Sometimes it's "Call me when you are in a better mood."

One of my favorite calls used to be "No School due to snow" but that one is starting to wear thin this winter.

Of course, once I was a mom the phone calls were even more memorable.

When the kids were in preschool, a phone call in the middle of the day informed me that Carly was complaining that her "heart hurt." Apparently that's what having bronchitis feels like when you are three years old.

The folks at Space Camp in Huntsville Alabama called to tell me they were taking Will to the hospital because they couldn't stop his vomiting. In the background, I could hear him telling his counselor, "Tell her to come." That was a six hour trip with me arriving about 2 in the morning.

When he was still in college, Sam called me while he was at Bonaroo with friends saying that he wanted to come home. That turned into a four hour trip.

 I'm particularly grateful when it seems like a call serves more as a lifeline than a means of communication. I actually remember once when the kids were just starting elementary school. The voice of unworthiness was shouting in my ear. I had just put the kids to bed and was taking a handful of sleeping pills, when the phone rang. It was a good friend, Barb, who seldomed call, but for whatever reason, she called that night. She was thinking of me. She loved me. I didn't swallow any more pills that night.

Of course, there was the phone call telling me my cousin had committed suicide, that my best friend would probably not live through the night, that my grandparents had died.

On Monday, my phone rang and it was a technician from my gynecologist's office. My first thought was that they were having trouble filing with my new insurance plan. Quickly though, I realized that wasn't the case. Apparently, my mammogram results warranted a diagnostic mammogram with ultrasound on my left breast. She assured me that it was nothing to worry about but that I needed to schedule the tests as quickly as possible.

It was a phone call that was a bit out of the ordinary and I was surprised at my reaction. In the past, this would have been easy to file away, put on the shelf. Instead, I felt a little sad for a bit, called my mom and Cathy, then I called to schedule the appointment.

You see, the voice of mental health speaks the truth. It asks for help, it feels what needs to be felt, then it acts appropriately. Three years ago I would not have even gone for a "well" check-up. My mental illness told me only weak, needy, self-absorbed people did things like that. Now I know the truth. People with much to lose take care of themselves.

So, I'll go have the other test next week. Then, I suppose, I'll wait for the phone call. Statistics say that the results will show that I'm healthy. I'll keep my fingers crossed for that one. But, if for some freaky reason, the  phone call doesn't go that way, I'll feel what needs to be felt, call my mom and Cathy and schedule what needs to be done. I'm so glad that the file and shelf that I used to help me check out no longer exist.

I need to stop writing. I've got a couple of phone calls to make.