My doctor recently took a bunch of my blood, on which to run a bunch of tests. It's not quite accurate to say we were hoping for bad news, but an abnormal something might clue us in to why I'm still so tired and achey and seemingly allergic to everything.
It wasn't long before my doctor called to say everything came back perfectly normal. As far as physical exams and extensive blood work can tell, I am a perfectly healthy 28-year-old woman. Which is odd, because I don't feel especially healthy. (Though I'm much better than I was three years ago.) I don't think of healthy people has having difficulty breathing or chronic pain.
After hanging up the phone, I peeked in on Westley as he peacefully napped in the middle of the big bed. He was breathing deeply, snoring lightly. He looked so perfect and beautiful to me. And I found myself wondering, with a sudden strange anxiety, Is he healthy?
I have no reason to doubt that Westley is the picture of health. He is rarely sick, and shakes off the occasional bug in what seems like a matter of hours. He's something of a picky eater, but still enjoys a huge variety of fruits. (That particular day, he'd packed away five bananas, in addition to lots of other healthful food.) At every doctor's appointment, he passes with flying colors.
But so do I. And while I may be healthy by the numbers, "health" is not usually my experience. (Or perhaps my standard of "health" is too high?)
It frightens me just a little to think that I can't really know what's going on with Westley's health. I have to trust in what I can see and measure: a boy who plays hard, sleeps well, and certainly seems to be growing stronger and learning things.