June 29, 2010
Prompt: “Stop worrying,” he said.
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"Stop worrying," he said as if he knew anything about worrying. I mean he never worries so what can he know about worrying. I have been worrying for both him and me for over 30 years and all he can say is "stop worrying." I worry for the children, the pets, the neighbors, the fire department, the police department, our federal government, including the
Supreme Court, which, between you and me, needs to be struck by lightning. I even worry for the Russians. See, I ended the Cold War. The Russians could not stand the pressure of my worrying. So you ask, why don't I worry for the Taliban and then that war will stop also. Ah, the Taliban. It is a harder nut to crack but you are right. I will focus all my worry on them, and maybe it will at least make them nervous. But what will happen to those whom I have to give up worrying about so I can focus on the Taliban? What will happen to them without my protection?
--Joanne Sinsheimer, RBWG member
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“Stop worrying” he said. He might just as well have said “stop breathing”. But then of course he knew that, and that’s why he said it. It was almost like a game they played together, almost, but not quite. If it were really a game shouldn’t it be more fun? It wasn’t fun, at least not to her. Mia knew that it wasn’t really meant to be a soothing, calming statement – like “stop worrying, everything will be alright”. He meant it more as a chastisement. From the many arguments they’d had on this subject she knew that the words behind this statement were disparaging and critical, more like “you worry too much”. But the worrying wasn’t something Mia could control and it aggravated her that this fact was lost on him, hence the “stop worrying”. Really, does anyone want to worry? Mia wondered, “Does anyone enjoy the anxious, agonizing nights waiting for medical test results, or the uneasy feeling waiting for the kids to come home”. She worries because she cares. Not to say that means that not worrying means not caring. And Mia is very clear on the fact that worrying doesn’t change an outcome. Yet, she can’t help thinking, maybe if he would start worrying, just a little bit, that she could stop.
--Michele Setton,
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Stop worrying?
Is that what I am expected to do? I could give up chocolate for the rest of my life, or go without seeing the ocean before I could agree to never worry. It’s a part of my psyche, imprinted in my DNA. “Murphy’s Law” is my favorite phrase. Give me a sign that says "Something will go wrong today" and I’ll hang it from the front porch, sail it on my bumper and paint it on the office wall.
The house could fall down in the wind. The car could break down. The telephone could fail and the button on my trousers could fall off when I’m in the bathroom preparing for the speech in front of a lot of people.
This all sounds so stupid. Worrying does nothing, helps nothing and gets nothing done. It raises blood pressure, sugar levels and adrenaline. It makes us tired and nervous and edgy and a pain to be around.
My new goal is to replace Murphy with Mother Theresa. If she can be trusting and believing, surely I can get through the day without worrying.
--
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They told me he was overworked and very testy. Instead, he was this owlish man with a furrowed brow showing deep concern for me – or for my heart at least. “It’s called atrial flutter. It’s a close cousin of your atrial fibrillation, but a bit more organized. Your upper chamber is beating at more than 250 beats a minute. Your lower around 70. Very inefficient. Think of the flutter as a runaway electrical circuit. We have to go in and burn the circuit. Then I think the heartbeat will normalize.”
“Go in,” I repeated. Tests a week ago revealed none of this. I could feel my own brow furrow. My eyes felt tight in the corners. “As in surgery?”
He nodded. His complexion was pink, not yet red over my reticence, but I could tell he was reading my mind. “With a catheter. You’ve been down that road before. Several times, according to your records.”
“It’s the recovery. I can’t stand to be on my back. I can’t breathe. I’ll have a panic attack,” I explained, feeling like a coward over a fear I cannot control and sounding like a whining child.
“We can deal with that. But it’s your choice. You might not breathe at all if you ignore this condition. You’re in great danger of a stroke or another heart attack. The procedure is routine, so stop worrying,” he said, his tone now as gruff as I was warned he could be.
He might as well have said,”Stop thinking.” I haven’t stopped either since his diagnosis.
--Jim Van Loozen, RBWG member
* * *
I watched from a downstairs window while Joe examined the contents of Maxwell’s desk. The study smelled of pipe tobacco; I wanted to sneeze. He was due back any minute and we only had three minutes to escape through the kitchen door.
“We have to go; I don’t want us to get caught here.” A worm of tension twisted in my gut.
“Stop worrying,” Joe said. His gloved hands held a shaft of papers yellowed with age.
I heard a clock strike three somewhere in the old house; Maxwell’s figure turned the corner.
“Here he is,” I said and turned toward the kitchen and the back door.
“Wait, you have to see this.”
“I’m out of here.” I heard the front door key turn in the lock. The back door closed quietly and I ducked below the window and headed for the alley. Joe will get caught. Now what?
--Eileen Callan RBWG member
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“Stop worrying,” he said, not that she listened to him. Not that she'd ever listen to him when he said that. Sure, she could hear the voice and see the lips moving, but she knew when she was being hustled. He always told her, too, that nobody was looking at her, that it was in her imagination. And that nobody cared what she did, she was just self-centered. But she knew better. For one thing, he commented on everyone they saw. Look at that hat! Did you hear what she said to him? That old suit cleans up nice, doesn't it? He may have been too nice a father to mean anything by it, but he sure saw everything, saw it and commented on it. How did he think he could fool her into believing that it wasn't so?
--Tom Hoyer, RBWG member
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“Stop worrying,” he said. "As long as we don't invite him near our toes, we're okay. He's slow."
"He's fast for a turtle," I protested.
"The kids'll love this. Hey, Jerry, get me the broom. Thanks. Okay, big guy, what can you do?"
Cindy and the kids all yelled at once while they simultaneously jumped back as the turtle snapped the broom handle in two. Cindy wondered if she had heard the wood crunched in two. Everyone slowly backed up while Eric surveyed the turtle shaking his long head back and forth, back and forth.
"How many hundred pounds do you suppose he weighs?" Donnie whispered.
"Too many," Cindy said.
--Sharon Hoover, RBWG member
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"Stop worrying Di-dee," said Ludmilla. "Already you have the elephant from the sack and the coppers on our necks."
My name is Diedre Biddle, and I live in
It is futile to correct Ludmilla when she is calling on the telephone. It is almost as bad to correct her in person because she gets that attitude that at least she is trying to speak English, while I the boorish, can only speak English and a smattering of Spanish. That still doesn't give her the right to mangle the language.
"So, Ludmilla, no more hello, no Yaccu-mash? - you just start telling me about elephants and the police?" Yaccu masch or something that sounds like yaccu mash means how are you in Slovene or Czech, and it the proper way to answer the telephone. Ludmilla has been teaching me the proper accent for 3 months now. I'm off on the yaccu pronunciation more often than the masch and she still rhymes my name with Tidy, instead of Dee-Dee.
But that wasn't important now. I'm not supposed to be worrying that Victor, the comrade of Vlad, his cousin actually, has stolen the pygmy elephant from the circus because he, Victor, not the elephant, did not get his pay, and because the elephant was not getting his feed.
Victor put the elephant in the back room of the carriage house that belongs to the house my great grandma left to me. If you are not familiar with
A stolen pygmy elephant is living in my garage located in the middle of the city. Victor has moved in with Ludmilla and Vlad. You can understand why I could be worried.
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