A confession

Delusional — defined by me as trusting that Grey’s Anatomy is a documentary filled with facts.

Me — definitely delusional.

This probably says it all.

A few weeks ago I was certain I was having a heart attack. Yep, an MI — Myocardial infarction.

I googled women’s symptoms and checked off the Mayo Clinic’s very concise list.

Strangely calm, I waited for my husband to return from walking the dog.

And then, I was okay. It seems these are also the symptoms of stress.

No MI., no hospital room darkened with the soft beeps of machines, no surrendering all my responsibilities to anyone willing to take over, no long rehab with people telling me I just need to take care of myself.

Crushing disappointment.

Horrifying to admit.

Equally horrifying that I seem to view heaven and a room at St. David’s interchangeably.

I know every response you are ready to post — oxygen mask first, you cannot care for another without taking care of myself first, all the comments on the back of every caregiver brochure.

I willingly believe them

I try to practice them.

But sometimes just hanging out in a private room, hoping Mere and Alex will stop by before they go home, or maybe Chief — even better, is a pretty good place to pretend to be.

I do not understand why Grey + Sloan Memorial Hospital is my go to fantasy retreat instead of Bali or even the west shore of Maui.

Maybe the result of steadily viewing 14 seasons has made the hospital as familiar as my home. Maybe it’s just the thought of having a break from crushing decisions and endless negotiations.

Maybe it’s just the luxury of fresh sheets everyday.

So if you share horrifying fantasies that make sense to no one except yourself, take heart.

You are not alone.

You can find me.

Just follow the soft beeps recording my heartbeats in a darkened room.