‘Twas a jagged-edged, feces-brown fleck on my dominant arm, up high on the palest of white bits where the sun has rarely ever shone, the snow-capped peak of my right arm man mountain, if you will, nestled amidst the even smaller blood red bumps that have graced much of my body since birth. The mark is gone now, the way of the dinosaur. Well, not really. Not exactly. Not unless that dino is also in transit, also heading towards a lab somewhere.
Am I worried? No, no I am not worried, not one bit. Scout’s-honor. This isn’t machismo running its yap, I am not the type for false bravado. Or true, or, for that matter, any other brand of bravado. Pragmatic, maybe. But I can and do express fear. I cry. It’s cool.
If, in two weeks, the report comes back shitty, I’ll deal. I’ll just deal.
There is strength in knowing others battle far worse maelstroms. My father, for example, who at more than twice my age, is more fragile physically than I, has been going through rounds of this bullshit for over a year now. It is scary, of course, for him, for my mom, for me and my brothers, but we deal. We move on to the next day, rinse, repeat.
I’m not worried about anything. But, depending on the thumbs up or thumbs down that is in that report, and that is how news like this is communicated — right? — I may be in a bit more of a hurry to get this book of mine published, speaking of crying. The damn thing gets me every time, in the exact same spot. What’s it about? A pen, of course. And a girl. And I think it is rather lovely.
This finished kid’s book on my hard drive is one of many lovely & amazing things in my life. And that is more than enough right now.
***Update 10/24***
The biopsy results came in a week early, and they were negative. Phew. As you were…
