The C Word. C-asaurus Rex. C is NOT for Cookie.

Top three things I hate:

3. Avocados (You can shut up right now; I know they're the most amazing thing your tongue has ever touched (sad for you), but I hate them. That texture is untenable.)

2. Putting my kid in timeout (Growing a good human is tough!)

1. Going to the doctor

I'm sure this isn't the first time I've written about being a doctor hater; but I have to beat this dead horse if I'm going to tell this story. And you want me to tell this story because I'm pretty sure it's funny. It also has a surprise ending in which you'll find out (spoiler alert!) I have a tumor in my face, so you don't want to miss this.

There's a boatload (a vessel named the C-Ward!) of valid reasons for women to hate going to doctors; but I'm going to let that dead horse lie for the sake of this narrative. My current doctor, whose name happens to be Erik, is a lovely fellow who doesn't seem to think any health issues I have are due to a wandering uterus or a fragile disposition. So we're good.

No, my reasons for avoiding my doctor aren't motivated by any feminist ideals. I don't like to go because every time I do, I come out with something else that makes me think, how has evolution allowed my family's people to survive? We a not viable. We're not robust or desirable or even particularly smart. We're basically the magoo giraffe that should have been taken down by the lion, but escaped certain death by hiding behind a bush.  

So when Eric started pestering me about a swollen lymph node in my face, I told him to mind his business. People in nursing school see diseases everywhere, and I can't afford to have that kind of negativity in my life. My body is very susceptible to suggestion. You so much as think about a condition exclusively for the ailing elderly in the same room as my body and it says, "Yeah, I think we should just have that now. In our 20s. That sounds like fun."

Unbeknownst to Eric (and Erik), my swollen lymph node and I had been living in harmony for a few years now. We mostly kept to ourselves, the node and me—checked in with each other now and then, but basically respected each other's space. It was exactly the kind of relationship I wish I had with my nosy, nursey husband.

I'm not going to take you through the weeks of haranguing that finally landed me in the doctor's office, but suffice it to say, I was worn down. And let me just tell you right now, there's something about men named Eric(k): they over-react, when it comes to me. I walk into the room and they see dead people.

After some less-than-gentle caressing of the node, Erik sat me down to outline his concerns. When it was all said and done, he had three vials of my blood and I had orders for an ultrasound and a biopsy. Not the best trade ever; but I haven't told you about his reassuring pat on the back, the fist bump (really?), and his orders to "try to live my life as normal."

Um, sure. Normal. But it was out into the air now—the C-word—and there was no taking it back. 

Now let's just take a moment to be real honest about this. Despite my ridiculous medical history, I did not think I had cancer. But dammit, I couldn't completely discount the possibility. Not when the incredibly cool radiologist let me see the big black mass in my face. Not when the lady checking me in at the hospital gave me the saddest eyes and told me it was good I was doing this because I "didn't want to die." And certainly not when they dressed me up in the gown and the hat and the booties, and led me to the OR (don't we think an OR is overkill for a biopsy?!).

Turns out, lymph node biopsies are a whole ordeal. From what I gathered, these are the rules: 

• There will be many people in the room, but your husband cannot be one of those people.
• The surgeon will have no sense of humor, not even when you offer to hang from the ceiling after he's positioned you 92 different, unsuccessful ways.
• It will take forever. Trust me. Forty-five minutes on a gurney with your face in your humorless doctor's middle-aged belly is one full eternity. Maybe two.
• You will be offered a hand to hold, which is weird. You'll take it because, I mean, you might have cancer and that's scary. 
• You will worry everyone thinks you're being a baby. (But they don't know about the lady who checked you in and told you that your next stop might be the morgue.)
• Numb will not equal lack of feeling. You will not hurt, but you will feel every bit of that crochet-hook-looking business digging into your face for good samples of your old pal, node.
• You should probably drink the juice they offer you when it's over, because you're paying for that juice! But you'll say "no thanks" because you're in no mood to loiter.

So...that part was a little bad. Truth be told, the B12 shots I get twice a week hurt worse than what happened here. But it's the unknown, you know? On the opposite hemisphere of my very stupid face, I suffer from Trigeminal Neuralgia, which I've been told is the very worst of all pains. But it's my pain. I know what to expect and there's just something to be said for that.

Because when you don't know what to expect, you spend the three days after the biopsy waiting in fear of the...impossible? Inevitable? Unthinkable? You know better than to troll the internet for the grimmest possibilities; but then, you've got that nurse for a husband, preparing you for the worst with his unprecedentedly kind overtures and extra-long hugs.

So there it is in a big old nutshell, folks: my weeks as a potential C-Word patient. You already know I have a tumor in my face; so I guess you're on pins and needles now, wondering if you're going to have to slog through another 18 posts about my face drama, or if that sucker is benign. And of course, mercifully for us all, it is. 

It had to be, because I'm clearly in no shape to be a decent victim of any real disease—have you noticed how much I've whined about the little things I do have to deal with? Nope. I'm not brave or strong or long-suffering. I don't possess any of the those special qualities that make our fighters, our survivors, and our memories so beautiful.

All I am is a little more aware. Aware of my own shortcomings. Aware of the fear people live in every day. Aware of how arbitrary it all is—this cancer business. By what flip of the coin did I get benign results while some other mother of some other beautiful little girl got malignant? 

Long before this episode, I've struggled pretty hard with that arbitrary bit. I'm often plagued with guilt for my own good fortune in the face of other's suffering. My mom says that's why, whenever I'm faced with a choice, I always choose the hardest path. And she's right; I never make the easy choice because I don't believe I'm entitled to simplicity or happiness. 

That sounds a little dramatic, but I think it's true. None of us are entitled to the good life. But when we are granted the blessing of being on the winning team, we should be humbled and grateful to be chosen. I think that's more productive than feeling guilty or ashamed.

Alright, that's enough of all that introspective-ism. I promised you a funny story about a tumor on my face and I think I delivered. Remember the part where you got to imagine me breathing in the sweet aroma of that doctor's belly? And how Erik game me a fist bump? I'd like to think we'd have had a good laugh no matter which we the C-ookie crumbled, but it's easier this way. And if it isn't maybe you just need this visual...