I've got a feeling

I had discovered a lump in my thirties that put me into a panic. My son was only 10 years old and I was terrified his memories of me would be of a sick, wasting-away mom who left him too soon. Hit the bed, pulled the covers over my head and sobbed. It was a cyst. I was a big baby. He's now 37 and I'm far, far away from wasting away, as the scale would testify if I would step on it. But this time, I've been strangely, emotionally detached. I don't know why. I was pretty sure from the beginning that I was dealing with the real thing, so maybe it's the fact that I wasn't blindsided by the diagnosis. First, I should admit I was a poster child for bad behavior. I hadn't had a mammogram in years. Like 7 years. Or maybe 8. All right, I'm pretty sure it was 10 years. This just wasn't on my radar. There was no family history of cancer -- but of course, it has to start somewhere, and I guess I'm it. My mother had a stroke, heart issues and Parkinsons. My dad had heart disease. My brother died of aplastic anemia. Nice gene pool. What a stew! But -- no cancer. And, in those 10 years, I had gone to doctors. They kept leaving me. Two retired. One was asked to leave his practice (and I could have seconded that). Found one I liked a lot. Saw her once. She moved to Idaho. I don't think I was to blame for that. But, there you have it. I worked out. I was healthy as any sturdy farm animal. This wasn't going to happen to me, but it did. And, if it had to, this is as good a time as any. My best friend Linn told me to call her new doctor. She liked her a lot. I called on Monday and asked for the first available appointment with whomever was available. I was on the docket for the next morning. After 10 years of neglect, I had found a new doctor and made an appointment in less than 10 minutes. Good progress.