I knew when the receptionist (who sounded all of twenty-three) sweetly called me Sweetie, that the news wasn’t going to be good.
“The radiologist wants you to come back in for another look.”
She didn’t add, “And whatever you do, for god’s sake, don’t fucking blog about this call.”
That sort of thing goes without saying. Because then readers will want to know, “How did the tests come out?”
And if there is something wrong (with my left breast — she specified that, it’s the left one) and I decide I want to keep it private, this post would have blown all chances of that.
But it’s eight p.m. on January third and I’d planned to start this year with habitual postings twice a week: Tuesdays, with 200 Words, and Fridays, with 5 Things I Learned This Week. I really wanted to follow through.
Here at eight p.m., I’m not feeling the inspiration to write about anything.
Instead, I’m thinking: bang out 200 words.
And I’m not worried about the tests, other than the fact that I wanted my Christmas gift money to go towards writing classes, not mammography and ultrasounds.
Listen to me begrudging potential early detection. I hate the phrase, “First-world problems.”