I had one of those scares this week with a health thing that makes me bargain with God, wish on eyelashes, and just plain keep my fingers, toes and legs crossed. I went to the doctor on Monday because under one of my arms feels like it has a rash, but it doesn’t. I love my doctor, she’s very thorough, and she looked at it, saw nothing, and then felt it and said, “I think you have a thickening under that arm.” I have never heard the word thickening used with regard to fatal illness, but let’s face it, my underarm is near my boob, so I’m thinking whatever is wrong with me has something to do with said boob, and that something is probably going to kill me and by the time I left her office with the number of the Breast Center I had to call for an ultrasound, I had my goddamn funeral dress picked out.
This is how I am. And those who know me well, know that I have a Stephen Spielberg imagination when it comes to my health. I’ve always been a bit of a hypochondriac, but I’ve also had my share of health issues (none that were life threatening, but a parade of them since I was little), so drawing the most dramatic conclusion with a really thick magic marker is not based on just having a fertile sense of drama.
Anyway, I had to wait for two nights and one full day to go to the ultrasound to find out that apparently my lymph nodes are beautiful and what my doctor felt was just probably fat. YES, FAT. And guess what, I’m so fucking happy to be fat under my arm, you can probably hear me yelling from wherever the hell you are.
I left that appointment, sped out of the parking lot and got caught in horrible route nine rush hour traffic, but guess what? I didn’t care. I sang to the radio. I sat in the jam smiling. I was going to live. No need for a funeral dress. Or the gift bags I was going to have handed out after the memorial service. Nope, not this time.