Phobias

I never really had a phobia. There are things I don't like but I breathe a bit and get through it and move on with life.

Last week I found my phobia.

I was in my storage room and smelt something rank. I knew. I knew we had a dead mouse. I had to clean the room out because we were having guests coming that night and they needed a place to sleep that wasn't filled with the stench of rotting rodent carcass.

So I started moving stuff around and I found the mouse. It was definitely dead. I screamed. I threw a suitcase in the direction of the mouse and ran away, crying, up the stairs to the kitchen where my daughter looked at me with the widest eyes possible.

"Did you see something scary Mom?" she asked. I gasped out "yes" and continued to hyperventilate. I calmed down enough to realize that I would not be able to dispose of the dead creature. Just thinking about it made my heart palpitate at an unhealthy rate. So I called some friends whose husband is sometimes home during the day but there was no answer. I called a couple of other people whose husbands do shift work in hopes that somebody would be home. With every call I got support from the woman but no husband. She told me I could do it and gave me a big pep talk full of ideas on how to get rid of it without having to touch it.

Mster watched me the entire time. At one point she opened the knife door and suggested that she take a knife and stab it just carry it outside. Yep she did.

And I called Cster too but he was trying to get everything done at the office because he was already taking the rest of the week off. He suggested that I let Mster dispose of it if I was really freaking out (which I was) and she wanted to.

So I told Mster that she was going to be the lucky girl to get rid of the mouse. Immediately her face fell and her eyes started filling and my heart broke. Of course I didn't make her do it but that still left me with only me to do it all.

I armed myself with a broom covered in a plastic bag, a cardboard box and a piece of heavy paper and made my way to the basement bedroom. When I got into the bedroom (the storage room is off the bedroom) I again started to hyperventilate and cry and turned right around and ran (yes ran) back upstairs.

I finally went through the Church phone list desperate to find somebody who would be home and a name popped up and I called him and he said he would be right over. When he came I gave him all my "tools". He looked at me like I was on crack and asked for 2 paper towels. I looked at him like he was on crack and gave him 2 paper towels. He did the job and I was ever so grateful.

And I now know I have a serious fear of dead mice.