Thanks to everyone for the lovely thoughts and prayers. I am happy to report that things can be ugly, but not dangerous, and I am overwhelmingly lucky to not only have nice folks in my life, but a dermatologist who called me at home, over the weekend, to tell me everything was okay.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he said, “Everything is fine,” and I actually exhaled and literally dropped my shoulders.
I slept really hard that night. I also realized I had to make good on all the mental bargaining I had done while waiting. Leah will make his son an excellent wife.
My 43rd birthday shows up in August, and I decided before that happened I would get every check-up I’ve been putting off for, quite literally, years. It’s sort of an on-going bone of contention around here, you see. I am an excellent manager of medical things for other people, but I am a terrible, horrible, juvenile, scaredy-cat patient.
Want me to look at your incision and clean it up? No problem. Want me to look at my own? NO WAY.
I know that I need to get a skin check and a mammogram every year. I know this. I’m totally educated on why, the statistics, my own family medical history. But, you see, there are results that come with those tests. And one day those results may change my life. I have strength for others’ challenges – but not so much for my own.
See? Terrible, horrible, juvenile, scaredy-cat.
BUT. I’m working on that. And so, it’s skin checks and OB-GYN appointments, mammograms and stress-tests and blood work before 43. 42 was a long year. I’d like 43 to be different.
I’m fairly certain the final appointment at the end of this gauntlet will be with the colorist. This whole thing is extremely grey-hair inducing. ‘Cause, you know, there’s health and there’s VANITY. Duh.