What would you do if you got a do-over? Sing-songy high and gleeful from a playground like that, DO-OVER! The chance to not make that mistake, the chance to undecide the bad decisions, or even the chance to do the things you didn't do but should have?
I've been thinking about that lately, mostly because I have not been able to sleep here in this strange bed with my stubble-headed scalp sticking and dragging over the pillow like an old set of felt Colorforms, but also because I have gotten as close as can be to a re-do. A reset, really, of my immune system, sure, but what if I took it further?
What if I decided that now is the time to lie and tell people I am extremely allergic to fish and mushrooms just so they'll stop pushing forks at my mouth because come on, try it, you'll love it! (No, no I won't.)
What if I decided that I like people now, like right away, strangers, friends of friends, my gut instinct now that you are going to be everything I love in a person instead of holding back, wary, inwardly sighing, waiting until I can get away, because really? What if I just liked you?
What if I ate a salad every day, and I'm not just saying the top layer of nuts, cheese and fruit, but the whole thing, dry leaves and all?
What if I dressed only in bright colors?
What if I stopped letting fear make my decisions, to live, to work, to write that book I've always wanted to write?
And here is where it gets scary, of course, where my brain reflexively sucks inward to protect itself like a throat closing up around a large, dry pill, because what if it didn't work? This whole thing? The stem cell treatment. The salad. The people, because most people do kind of suck, don't they? Right? What if I wrote a book and it was terrible? And I still had MS? And I looked terrible in yellow.
This is a post with no resolution, just a bunch of what ifs on the 18th day of my immune system, a day when we went to the beach and watched schools of little kid surfers on foam boards get pummeled by waves and stand up again laughing.
Tomorrow I go to the clinic for blood work, the results of which should tell me when I get to go home. My dad and I have placed bets; my chip is on Thursday. Already they have removed my picc line, a process that turned my stomach as they pulled the cappellini-sized catheter from somewhere near my heart and out of my arm like a hair pulled out of butter.
But that's just a guess, Thursday, a what if it was? And I got to go home before the next Shabbat Shalom? Allergic to fish? And right away I liked you, whoever you are, my opening line to my new stranger friends, what would you do if you got a do-over?