“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about but we’ll do a biopsy to be sure.”
When I heard those words again the little hairs on the back of neck stood up at attention.
You can’t tell me not to worry when I’ve been around the block a time or two.
You can’t tell me to not worry when I lost the war.
This time the words don’t pertain to me. The beloved husband has a spot. No one is concerned but me. He was referred to a specialist who whacked out a biopsy. He, of course, is not taking it seriously.
Perhaps that is harsh. He is following the protocol but isn’t concerned. After all, two docs told him that it probably wasn’t anything.
No one seems to be truly concerned. Why would you do a biopsy if there wasn’t a chance of something serious?
I know there is no point in worrying because all answers will come in due time. Tell that to my inner self who dwells on all negatives endlessly.
This is the “what if” center of my soul. I sincerely wish I didn’t have one. Could I have it removed or perhaps spackled shut?
Why do I have this crazy center but others seem to function very well (indeed better than me) without one?
When did I lose “believing” that bad things don’t happen to me?
Remember when Mom said it would be all right? She was usually right but not always. Perhaps I can blame her. Or maybe I inherited the worry wart gene.
No point in worrying about the worry gene. Maybe some retail therapy will help until the results come in.