admitting my mother was right. . .

. . . gets no easier with age, I'm afraid. But I had to call her this afternoon, knowing I was fueling her lifelong passion for "I told you so." I did call. She did say, "I told you so."


I don't like (some people actually do, weird as it seems) going to the doctor. So mostly I don't. The last few years have been so crazy, so full, that it was always next week or month or year that I was going to schedule that long overdue physical, with the myriad of tests sure to be exacted of someone my age. I'd have almost convinced myself that this was the week, when my mother would ask me if I'd made that appointment. I'm contrary that way. Nag me about something and I'm out the door, in the next county or country, doing everything but what you want.


This summer I finally cut her a deal: stop nagging and I'll make the appointment. She did. I did.


Doctor, lawyer (another story for another day), Indian chief was the first installment. This is hopefully the last.


I think the label is Tis. . . looked surprisingly inocuous as I watched it being snared (my insides on wide screen TV and I was loopy enogh to be fascinated!) and glimpsed it again in its zip-loc bag. Just eight days ago. An innocent little time bomb, as it turned out. Perfect timing on my part, as it turned out.


But my mother was right. And I had to tell her so. And I did. . .