Chicken Little

The other day someone called me Chicken Little. At first, I reacted with annoyance. "What does that mean? What is the point of saying that?" I said via text. "You sometimes act as if the sky is falling..." was the reply.

Initially, I brushed the comment off. Later, it made me think. Have I become a worrier and over anxious? Do I blow things out of proportion and engage in catastrophic thinking? Yes and yes.

Have I, and I shudder to think of it, become a pessimist?

Life has gotten me down lately. My brother in law's death last year, along with my infertility, has led me to live life without my usual rose colored glasses. I used to be a total optimist, that's how I got so far in life. No matter what was going on in my life, I felt that it would okay. It didn't matter in my waitressing days if I had no car and had to beg for rides or take the bus, or had to pick up shifts to have money for rent, I knew it would be okay.

When I was in law school, those first two years were hard, always scrounging for food, gas and other necessities. But again, I always knew that I would be okay.

Now, even though I am far more financially comfortable, I am not so sure it will be okay. Perhaps, I have begun to face my own mortality. I keep asking myself, why am I here? What am I meant to accomplish if I cannot have a child? (Obviously, this is a personal issue and I am not in any way saying that every woman's life is for procreation.)

My point is this: my yearning for and then my quest and inability to conquer that elusive windmill of having a child, has made me question my very purpose in life.

While a dog is not a baby, at least not a human one, my two shih tzus Frodo and Chewbaca are two of my great loves. Yesterday, I had to take Chewbaca to the vet because I found a lump. The vet is a good friend of mine and he tried to aspirate it, but ultimately, he decided Chewie needs to have it removed and biopsied. I tried not to over react. Inside, I am terrified that this is bad.

After the vet visit, I made a conscious decision to try and be optimistic. Instead of freaking out and crying in my car after the vet visit, I took Chewie to Starbucks and got him a whip cream treat. I sipped my espresso listening to The Strokes while he licked his whip cream cup almost bare. At one point, I looked into his caramel colored eyes and said, "You are going to be okay. We are going to be okay.”

And, I meant it.