The Big Scary

I did it. It took me 6 months, but I did it: I made an appointment to have a "swelling" in my neck looked at. First step is an ultrasound. Then, I suspect, will be a biopsy. Naturally, the imaging center was all set to take me immediately, but I still am not quite ready to face reality, so I scheduled the ultrasound for March 11. Enough time so I don't feel panicky right away, but soon enough that I can feel as though I'm Taking Care of Business. Business I should have taken care of in August, when the doctor first made note of it, but I'm trying to not beat myself up or let my mind wander to those dark places so familiar to a hypochondriac. For those of you who have normal patterns of thinking, I'll illustrate what I mean by that "dark places" bit.

The Scene: Medical office. Doctor is sitting somberly behind his desk, shaking his head sadly as he reviews my test results. I am perched on the very edge of a chair in front of his desk, sweating profusely and about to either faint, vomit, or both.

Sad Doctor: "Ms. CrankyPants, Ms. CrankyPants, Ms. CrankyPants...why, oh WHY didn't you get this looked at 6 months ago? We could have saved you! Now...it's far too late." [more sorrowful head shaking]

Panicky Ms. C-P: "Blkhjkdbgysnph!" [inarticulate mumbling, vomiting, or both]

Now-Annoyed Doctor: "Assistant! Remove Ms. CrankyPants from my office at once! See to it she doesn't soil the carpet. And be sure to get her co-payment!"

If I don't do something to stop it (like watch a trashy TV show or read gossip sites online), my terrifying little fantasy gets a lot more involved, but I don't want to totally depress you. So I'll switch to something cheerier:

I'm going bald! Yes, folks, there is an alarming patch of thinning hair that I'm seeing the dermatologist about next week. (Clearly, vanity propels me to the doctor a lot faster than a possibly life-threatening Suspicious Swelling.) Hopefully, the hair loss is caused by something delightful like a fungus that can be cleared up with a smelly and scalp-stinging shampoo, but I'm certainly open to other, deadlier, reasons for this latest addition to Things Wrong with Ms. CrankyPants. Even Capt. Nap is concerned disgusted.

"I can't look at your fungus-covered scalp! It's hideous!"

I'll keep you updated as these medical dramas unfold. In the meantime, I'm watching crap TV, wishing desperately that Dr. Swank's damn diet allowed chocolate, and trying not to touch my hair.

Thank You for Vomiting, Napoleon

I have a confession. I'm ashamed to admit this, because I already reported one dismal failure in the form of a tasty pizza last night. But, because I feel I'm among friends, I will share. I almost slipped AGAIN. Here's why:

I got these yummy morsels in my Christmas stocking. They had been stashed in a bag, which was wadded up and jammed in a cupboard. You know: out of sight, out of mind? HA! Those damn Butterfingers have been shouting at me for 24 hours: "Eat me! We're sweet and crunchy and delicious! One or four won't hurt! EAT ME!" (Does this happen to you -- food bellowing at you? Yes? Good! I was worried it was only me.)

Like yesterday, I ate a wholesome breakfast, super low-fat lunch, a banana, some grapes...and then I heard the muffled yet irresistible siren call of the Butterfingers. Somehow, the wadded up bag ended up out of the cupboard and on the couch next to me. I successfully ignored it for a couple of hours, thinking about how lame I'd feel when I was finished shoveling them in.

And then Fate intervened. Immediately after cat dinner time, I heard plaintive mewling from the living room. I assumed it was Napoleon (aka Captain Nap) and his sister Squeaky the Cat playing. The mewling grew louder, and then it turned into a repeated "blerph!" Yes, old Capt. Nap regurgitated his half of the duck-flavored canned food he has to eat because of a food allergy. That stuff smells gross from the can; you can imagine how it smells upon being expelled. I cleaned it up and, feeling slightly nauseated, put the Butterfingers away. So, thank you, Napoleon, for vomiting.