Recipe for Love by Anne Malcom EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Anne Malcom
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 1 MB
Recipe: Tan Slice
My name is Nora Henderson, and I am currently having a pulmonary
embolism.
If you didn’t know, a pulmonary embolism is when a blood clot develops
in the body then travels to a lung where it disrupts air flow.
The symptoms are a sudden shortness of breath, chest pain, a feeling of
anxiety, lightheadedness, heart palpitations and sweating. If you have deep
vein thrombosis you will also have pain, swelling and warmth in your leg.
If not treated, it can cause serious problems, ultimately leading to death.
Death.
Right now, I could be dying.
“Nora, do the muffins have peanuts in them?” a voice asked, interrupting
visions of what my funeral might look like.
I thought it would be small but well attended. The flowers would be
white. Lilies. Or roses. At the church down by the water, even though I
wasn’t a particularly religious person. It was pretty there. A nice place for a
funeral.
I blinked my pink, girly, magnificent, orderly kitchen into focus and
sharpened my attention on the fresh-faced, blonde-haired Australian who had
just asked me a question.
“What?” I asked, my voice scratchy and dry. Likely from the trouble I
had breathing. Caused by the blood clot clogging my arteries.
“The muffins,” she said. “I would’ve just lied and said no if the customer
in question hadn’t stressed their life-threatening peanut allergy. I don’t want
to get sued if they like, keel over and die or something.”
My breathing evened out, my heart slowing now that I had something to
focus on.
Fiona was obsessed with being sued. Apparently, you couldn’t sue people
in Australia like you could here.
“No, there are no peanuts in the muffins,” I reassured her.
She chewed her lip. “Can you come and tell the customer? I think I kind
of shattered my credibility with them. I told them that no one had died from
our products… that we know of. It would sound better coming from the
person who actually baked the muffins. And liability would shift to you.” She
winked before her blue eyes flickered over me. “Plus, you look like you’re
spiraling back here. What is it today?”
Fiona was one of the few people who knew about my health anxiety.
About my worrying about anything and everything. She didn’t judge me for
it. Didn’t tell me I was crazy—which I often thought I was—didn’t try to
reassure me that if I just ‘calmed down,’ everything would be fine. She took
me in stride, stayed composed when I couldn’t, and didn’t act like I was a
massive hypochondriac, which I was, to put it lightly.
She didn’t understand completely, of course, because her brain didn’t
torture her daily. At least not like mine had since before I could remember.
My life has consistently been punctuated by worry. Bookended by anxiety
and panic.
“Nothing,” I replied weakly. I was embarrassed, hyper-embarrassed about
this little idiosyncrasy. I did not want to be like this.
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