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We were in the car the other day, my son and I.
"Mom," he said. "What are you afraid of?"
What am I afraid of? Ugh. He has no idea. Frankly, I wish I didn't, either.
I'm having surgery in a couple of days - I'm not a good patient. I have a very low pain tolerance. I'm pretty much afraid of doctors, afraid of hospitals, afraid of needles, afraid of blood, afraid of just about everything except the anesthesiologist, whom I adore.
The fact that I actually gave birth to two children still gives people pause. My epithets, complaints and strange demands are likely still legendary at the maternity ward in Springfield, Mo.
But I look back at my son's beautiful, trusting eyes, and, somehow, I don't think this is the answer he's looking for.
"Um, snakes," I say. "I'm kind of afraid of snakes."
He smiled. "I'm a little afraid of heights," he told me, and sat back.
Sigh. Maybe as long as there's no snakes in the operating room, I'll be okay.