Friday afternoon I panicked when I looked down and saw a dark, raised mole on my chest that I’d never noticed before. I was Googling “signs of terminal skin cancer” when I noticed another dark splotch on the neckline of my shirt, right next to the death mole.
It was chocolate.
I don’t know whether to be relieved I’m not dying or sad that my life is basically a Cathy comic strip.
Seriously though, I’m a total hypochondriac. I was basically convinced I was dying for the last year because I never got the “everything is fine” letter from my doctor after my annual checkup. I was too afraid to call my doctor and ask what was up, since in the mind of somebody like me (aka, a moron), not getting that letter could not possibly be the result of a lazy office staff or a mistyped address or a Post Office mistake. No, the only logical reason I did not get my letter was because I HAVE THE CANCER.
My state of mind on Tuesday when I went to the office for this year’s checkup was hovering around “Gary Busey on uppers” because I was sure when my doctor opened my chart she would be all, “All we can do now is make you comfortable,” and write me a prescription for pajama jeans and a mai-tai drip.
It didn’t happen quite like that.
When the nurse was taking my vitals, she casually mentioned that since they are only required to run lab tests every other year, they’d be sending mine out after this visit. As in, they did not run any tests last year. As in, I SPENT A YEAR OF MY LIFE WORRYING OVER TEST RESULTS THAT DID NOT EVEN EXIST. Somebody pry the dumbass of the year award out of Dina Lohan’s withered coke-claws because I am clearly its rightful owner.
I’d like to be able to say I learned a valuable lesson from this incident, but I’m too busy worrying about my lab results.