In which I convince myself the bird flu is all my fault
I think I may be responsible for bringing the bird flu to the UK. No, I’m serious. You see, ever since we booked the wedding, I’ve been waiting for something to go really badly wrong. It’s kinda like a universal law or something: “And the Lord did decree that from that point on nothing would go right for Amber. Ever.” I mean, I can pretty much guarantee that as soon as I have something to look forward to, or be excited about, this will immediately be balanced out by some pretty serious crap.
Example: December 15, 2003, Terry and I get engaged. December 26, 2003, Terry is diagnosed with end stage renal failure.
Our lives are pretty much like that, y’know? So, I’ve been worrying a little about what would happen to ruin the shiny happiness of the wedding preparations. I figured someone would probably die. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that, actually, EVERYONE would die. Because make no mistake people, WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. All of us. Bird flu’s comin’ to get us. Tinfoil hats and World War 2 gas masks at the ready. (Also, credit cards. Because if I’m going to die, I’m going to do it in style. Hell yeah.)
The whole wedding thing is freaking me out a bit, actually. I just can’t get used to the idea of having something to look forward to. In the past couple of years I’ve become so used to having things to dread – Terry’s operation, his dialysis sessions, the arrival of my credit card bills every month, Celine Dion’s new album – that it feels really, really strange to actually have a happy event looming on the horizon rather than a terrible one. I can’t seem to get past the feeling that something will happen to ruin it. When I speak to people about the wedding (seriously, I try not to do this, but they WILL ask…) I always feel like a big old fraud. It’s like I’m just pretending that this is actually going to happen, and sooner or later I’m going to realise that it isn’t.
Anyway. The bird flu is here. Terry has his fortnightly appointment at the hospital tomorrow to check that the new kidney is hanging on in there. I have a 1000 word article to write for The Scotsman for tomorrow morning, which I um, kind of haven’t quite started yet. (Not my fault, really, the deadline was Monday, but they changed it. But I haven’t even thought about it yet, so, yes, kinda my fault). I’m scared. Hold me.