Hours after I returned home with the so-called simple agreement forms for my divorce from Edgar, my doctor called. Turns out, there is a reason other than stress why I'm so tired — and it's not that I'm having one of those female heart attacks with the weird symptoms, as I had feared.

My hemoglobin is low. The doctor said he suspects I'm bleeding internally.

"This is not an emergency," he said. When I return next week from visiting my parents I'm to go see him for tests. Oh, okay.

And then I realized: Had this happened after I get my divorce, I probably wouldn't know there was a problem, much less be planning to check it out. When Ed is really gone, so is my health insurance.

Tired? Take more vitamins, get more rest and exercise. When my leg falls off or blood starts running from my ears, then I will afford, somehow, to see a doctor, in the emergency room, because it is an emergency.

Millions of people are doing it. It's the American way.

I've been delightfully spoiled for many years, insured and able to make co-payments so I can see a doctor whenever I think I need to. I am afraid of giving that up.

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear."

I've heard versions of that quote, attributed to Ambrose Redmoon, for years. Especially since I came into AA, where we talk about feeling the fear and doing it anyway.

Ed has been out of the house for a year. I've done a lot of life reconstruction since then, with much more to come, and some of it is already scaring me. But old Ambrose's words are wise.

Apprehensive as I am, I'm also unwilling to let concerns about health insurance stop me from ending this bad marriage.

Who knows? Maybe once the divorce is final, my relief will be so great I'll be struck perfectly healthy. 

Edgar's therapist mentioned that Edgar's relationship with alcohol was the most important, the one he was willing to sacrifice everything for. My husband, Ed, dismissed the notion with a "don't-be-ridiculous" air that I knew well.

Accustomed as I was to going along with him — and probably because it suited my vanity — I dismissed the notion, too.

After Ed and I had been apart for some months, I listened to a fellow alcoholic, who was under the influence of something at the time, insist that he did not love booze and drugs more than he loved his wife and kids.

And I finally accepted my truth: His therapist was dead right about Ed's affair with alcohol.

Ed would disagree and tell me that his uncontrollable drinking was hell. I don't doubt that. But, as I told him, "I'd feel differently if you were being chased down the street by bottles of rum that threw you to the pavement and poured themselves down your throat, but it doesn't work that way. At some point you make a choice to pick up a drink."

I'm reminded of that Lou Christie hit from the ‘60s, "Lightnin' Strikes," in which he sang falsetto about being powerless to resist sudden attractions to women. He promised his girlfriend that one day he'd settle down and they'd get married.

But until then, he wanted her to stick around, understand.

It is perhaps unimaginably hard for an alcoholic to stop drinking. I don't know exactly why I've been able to do it, one day at a time, for almost a year and a half and Ed has not.

Many recovering alcoholics (and we're always "recovering" or "recovered"; it's kind of like being a pickle, you never go back to being a cucumber) say, "There but for the grace of God go I."

I hadn't had any time off in 15 days and was really looking forward to my weekend as I got into my car to leave work. I picked Adrian up from daycare and he was happier than ever to see me.

He gave me this huge smile and came rushing toward me, arms wide open. That boy makes my heart melt. Every time I see him it's magical.

We went home, had dinner, and crashed early with plans to meet some friends at the beach the next day. The next morning, birds were singing and the sun was shining.

We arrived at the beach, got a prime spot, and Adrian began to play in the sand as I read a magazine. Watching my sweet little boy, I reflected on how truly blessed I am.

It was shaping up to be a fabulous day.

Then, mid-afternoon, Adrian plopped down in my lap so I could put sunscreen on him.

That's when I saw it — a nasty, whitish bug running around in my son's hair. I gasped and parted his beautiful blond locks to reveal another one ... and then another.

At that point, I shouted an expletive, and called my friend Rachel over. She confirmed it. Adrian had head lice.

Gross.

So, the day at the beach was now ruined. I was in hysterics and on the phone calling Adrian's doctor. Rachel was picking through my really thick, really long hair, in search of the disgusting bugs. She didn't find any.

The doctor told me the name of what to put on my son's head, and added that I should calm down. I shoved Adrian in the car and we drove to the drugstore.

I got the treatment and read the directions, which say that it's ideal to have someone (a buddy) look through your hair with a magnifying glass to locate and remove any of the nits, or little eggs.

Well, I'm Adrian's lice buddy, but who is mine? No one, that's who.

Rachel lives way too far away, and there's no way in hell I'm calling up anyone else and asking them to remove lice eggs from my hair.

What's a single mom to do?

Sometimes, it’s a good thing when the other shoe drops. It became clear early in my seven-year marriage to Edgar that he is an alcoholic. I might have noticed before the vows were said, had I not been so happy to have found the ultimate drinking buddy.

But after I stopped counting the number of times he went to detox and to rehab, after I stopped hiding his car keys and calling the cops when he found them, after I finally realized he wasn’t the only alcoholic in the house and sobered up, I noticed that I was not happily married.

I should have been. Ed is bright and funny and professionally accomplished.

He was far more likely to cook and clean than I was, and as far as I knew was faithful -- except for those lost weekends, and weeks, with the bottle.

But I did realized that I couldn't trust my husband, who had sworn that he never lied to me about anything important.

In addition, we had uncomfortably different ideas about money, and about the state of our marriage.

But Ed had put the plug in the jug, as recovering alcoholics say. So I tried to be satisfied.

I told him that if he went back to drinking he’d have to find someplace else to live.

Professionals had told him that if he resumed drinking he wouldn’t live very long.

I was glad he was accumulating sober time, though bizarrely, I knew that, if he started drinking again, my decision about the marriage would be much easier to make.

On the other hand, I couldn't wish active alcoholism on anybody, especially not the only guy I ever married.

Then I was gone for a week to visit my elderly parents.

Ed and I talked every day, and I looked forward to getting home. He knew when and where my flight was arriving, but wasn’t there to meet me.

And he didn’t answer his cell phone the first couple of times I called. When he did pick up the phone, he had trouble explaining what was going on.

Traveling together. This opens up all kinds of possibilities for discovery. You're really together when traveling. Proximity and the logistics of this trip means that Certain Things will come up.

We'll be hiking. I have no stamina. At all. This was not true when I was going to yoga every day, but that's lapsed somewhat, and my wind was the first thing to go. I'm going to be the sad little puffing girl who can't keep up.

It's going to be hot. I get sweaty. I always feel like I'm the sweatiest person in the room. When the room is hot, that is. For a brief, shining couple of months, I worked with a guy who was sweatier than me and we bonded in our ickiness. No one likes sweaty. I've been assured that everyone thinks they're the sweatiest person in the room, but I don't think that's true.

There's the bench thing. I love benches. I can't pass a bench strategically aimed at a scenic spot without sitting on it, at least for a few seconds. I mean, if someone took the trouble to aim a bench at something, the least I can do is sit there for a minute and appreciate it.

Thank God he already knows about the peeing thing. I have no problem peeing outside, but I'm going to have to ask him to cover his ears.

Luckily, the whole video game thing, which I have kept impressively under wraps thus far, will not be an issue whilst in another country.

When you start dating, you realize there are a number of things you don't necessarily want the other party to know about — at least, not at first. Habits, tendencies, things you're mildly embarrassed about, things you're not sure will go over well, things that didn't go over well with the last partner. They're small, yes — not really that big a deal in the grand scheme of things — but you're not necessarily eager to share them.

I mean, you can love and trust someone and still not want to them to know you have a really, really hard time peeing when you think anyone can hear.

Since we're in a long distance relationship, when Mike and I see each other we stay in each other's apartments. This means we're together a lot of the time. This means he's figured a lot out already.

And no, I can't pee if I think anyone can hear. Or if I think someone's waiting for the bathroom. Obviously, this had to come out into the open early on. He hasn't stopped rolling his eyes, but he has let me pile pillows on his head before I head to the bathroom.

He's found out how I feel about jammies. In that I like them — a lot. In that I tend to come home from work, put them on, and stay in them the rest of the day. In that I avoid getting dressed as long as possible over the weekend.

He knows the house kind of revolves around the cats.

I've had to admit, recently, that I have a number of friends I only know through the Internet.

He knows I smoke sometimes.

These things have all come to light. None of them, of course, have been a big deal, but all of them were things I was reluctant to share. They are all things that may not have been learned as soon as they were if we hadn't been sharing a space.

In less than a month, we're taking a trip together. There's no hiding when you're traveling. What will come to light then?