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 paper gowns that don't close correctly in back, 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.