I'm very upset about Natasha Richardson.

I wasn't best friends with her and she wasn't my favorite actress or anything, but I'm still upset. I'm sad she died young, but more than that I'm upset about how she died. Last week, I was talking to the SSLP about injuries. She teases me about being a wuss about trying new sports and outdoor activities, but I epiphanied that I'm TERRIFIED of injury. Phobic. Even of minor injuries, because I can't afford to miss one day of work, let alone 6 to 8 weeks for recovery.

And then this happens. She died. She died of something that should have been an anecdote to tell her husband at the end of the day. "Oh, honey, you should have seen me trying to ski today...a spongecake would have been more coordinated..."

My sister tried to comfort me by saying that Liam was holding her hand the whole time. But that didn't comfort me right away. It just reminded me that I have no Liam. If anything happens to me, who will call 911? The little voice in my head? I don't need anyone to coddle me while I die. That's not the point. The point is that little voice in my head being left alone while I bleed to death from a rogue racquetball to the head.

I don't usually think about the worst possible scenarios. Today I have wicked PMS and bad stuff happens every day. To everyone and anyone.