Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Nope.
It’s been two weeks since I found the lump, or what I think is a lump. Fourteen agonizing days of what amounts to me playing with myself, checking to see if it’s still there and trying to mentally measure the damn thing. Apparently, if it’s under pea size, I don’t need to worry . . . as much.
The waiting room chairs are uncomfortable. I sit. I stand. I pace. I read every display case, pick up every magazine, and read the jokes in Reader’s Digest. Every time I sigh heavily, the receptionist gives me a warning. I’m probably on her last nerve being as I’m on my own, but I’m too young for this shit. To me, this is an emergency, and could affect my entire life in ways I don’t even want to imagine.
Finally, after a couple more dramatic sighs and some severe eye twitching from the receptionist, the nurse calls my name. She makes idle chit chat until we get to the scale. I stand on it and watch her fumble with the weighted dials. The nurse looks at my chart and then makes another adjustment.
“It looks like you’ve lost some weight.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
Without making eye contact, she says, “Not in your case.”
And what case is that, exactly?
I’m sick?
Depressed?
Should I tell her I’m not eating because I’ve broken up with the love of my life, and while I’m the one who said things are over, I’ve been miserable since Elle left? Or should I say that since finding the lump, all I’ve done is drink beer to numb the thoughts running through my head?
I choose to nod, step off the scale, and follow the nurse to the examination room. She tells me to sit in the chair while she adds the blood pressure cuff to my upper arm. Every so often she glances over and smiles.
She’s noted my blood pressure, which I guess is normal, since she had nothing to add. “Any recent life changes?”
Does the copious amount of alcohol I consume count as a life change?
“I guess. I’m not sure what constitutes a life change.”
“Lost job? Relationship status?”
Wow, going for the juggernaut.
I rub my hands over my legs and think about how much I should tell this woman. I should keep some part of my life private, even though I know once Elle is photographed without her ring on, everything about me will be front and center on Page Six. The break-up will be my fault, of course, and the headlines will be something along the lines of how I couldn’t hack it in her world. The editors won’t be wrong, but they’re not necessarily right either.
“My fiancée and I recently split. Things have been a bit rough, which likely equates to my weight loss, and then I found the lump.” I can’t look at the nurse when I say this and can only hear her typing away. “Oh, and I quit all my freelance jobs and took a corporate one for health insurance, which I guess is a good thing.”
The nurse and I look at each other at the same time. The discernable frown on her face gives me pause. Something I’ve said isn’t sitting right with her. I’m afraid to ask what’s wrong because I’m not sure I want to know.
“The doctor will be in shortly. Undress and put the gown on, open in the front. You can leave your socks on.” She gets up and leaves.
“Just my socks. Got it,” I say to the empty room. Before I change, I glance around the room, missing the days when my pediatrician had dinosaurs and the ABCs for the border wallpaper. Now, it’s dated flower wallpaper which has muted in color over the years. Same with the wall paint. It was probably stark white, but now it’s dingy and yellowing. No amount of bleach is going to save it.
I undress, put the gown on like a bathrobe, and sit on the crinkly paper. This stuff is supposed to protect people from germs, but I don’t see how a roll of very thin paper can do that. While I sit there and wait, I count the flowers. I get to forty when the door opens and my doctor walks in.
“Hi, Benjamin.”
Benjamin. My name, and yet no one ever really uses it. “Hi, Dr. McNally.”
McNally is probably Harrison’s age, with a full head of gray hair. We’re about the same height and he’s been my doctor since I moved to California for college. Other than that, I know little about the man, except I think he’s good at his job. He holds my chart in his hand, reads today’s notes, and then flips through to my other appointments and then back to the first. He frowns. This isn’t a good sign. He sets it down on the counter and takes a seat on the stool.