Before I got hitched to an Israeli guy, we flew to Israel to visit the kibbutz where he had grown up. The smell of grass and cigarettes outside the kibbutz pub made me heady, and drunk on a lot of cheap wine and possibility, I told him, “I’d totally love to live in Israel someday.” Well, three years, and two kids later, he’s calling my bluff. We’re moving half-way across the world with our infant and toddler to live next door to his mother. And I am not happy about this.
Sarah's moving to Israel to live next door to her mother-in-law.
I’ve been struggling with depression for years. Sounds kind of romantic. Sound’s almost… epic. But believe you me, it isn’t. This isn’t some teenage Emo angst. This is real, and it’s been my nightmare for years.
But, for the last year and a half, I’ve been OK. Mostly. Yeah, I got kind of weepy after Little Homie was born, but that was only because I forgot that you should avoid all reflective surfaces during the first month, and I happened to catch a glimpse of my sorry, saggy self in the mirror. Nekkid. But still, I managed to turn that experience into blog fodder, so clearly I survived.
But, with the stresses and strains of the upcoming move to Israel, the depression is back. Pulling, pushing, pinching me.
B. and I just went in for our physicals. Our doctor ordered blood, and B.’s red blood cell count and hemoglobin are slightly–just a hair–below normal.
My throat constricted as I read the results: Something is wrong with my husband.
So, for the last few days, I’ve been living on Google:
“CBC and red blood cell count”
“Anemia” (which led me to an article on Britney Murphy and Simon Monjack. After 15 minutes that I’ll never get back spent trying to find an autopsy report and reading TMZ and People Magazine, I felt my heart stammer as I clicked back to Google and typed: “Killer Mold”)
…Which led me running and screaming back to the doctors, dragging B. by the hand as I threw around words like “stachybotrys” and “pulmonary embolism.” Our doctor, in turn, threw around words like “panic attack” and “antidepressants.”
I think she’s right. After all, you know you’re in trouble when the only reason you want to have sex is to check your husband for testicular cancer.
