My family had this terrible way of leaving out the middle part of any story. For years growing up, I heard that my Aunt Edith 'died of an ingrown toenail.' As I sit here with my own ingrown toenail, I fight the irrational thought that I might just die from it at any moment.

The middle of thisl story is she had an ingrown toenail that got infected and she had diabetes and died from complications thereof, no doubt.

I wonder if they just had a flare for the dramatic, or if they thought it would be a more useful lesson without the middle. When I was a preschooler, I had a hard time understanding the urge to 'go', and would often hold it until it was too late. Now I know that the inability to recognize body signals comes from the autism. But back then, I thought it was some personal failing. And my mother in her infinite wisdom said to me quiet seriously "If you don't go to the bathroom, you're going to die."

Cue years of angst any time I was constipated. What if I wasn't going enough and death was right around the corner?

As I get older I think the active avoidance of death has become less of an obssessive priority. I've survived 46 years after all, I must be doing something right. I try to make sure I eat balanced meals when I can, go to the doctor when I need to (though don't get me started on insurance costs) and generally don't do anything stupidly risky. I figure since most of my relatives lived (or are living) good long lives, I've got a genetic good chance.

Provided I don't die of this infected toenail!