The Waiting Game

Someone said, "Today is the tomorrow that you spent your time worrying about yesterday."

I had a bad case of the jitters as I picked up the phone to make an appointment with my doctor. I had found a good sized lump on my thigh. A lump, I pondered. Just what I need. I've lost an arm, now I'm about to lose a leg. How wonderful, I thought, as I pictured myself a miserable, crippled old fossil keeping my little ranch and animals in good fettle. Along with rheumatoid arthritis and spinal stenosis, this would be just one more thing to raise my walking drugstore status.

My doctor inspected the lump and sent me headlong into radiology, where I was placed under some gargantuan machine resembling a medieval torture device. "I don't really think it's anything to worry about, Kath," he remarked as I pulled on my jeans, and began that awful waiting game.

Whether my doctor was worried about me or not, those were the words I liked to hear. It was an expression of reassurance and comfort intended to reduce the anxious wondering about what the reports would reveal. Who among us hasn't taken deep breaths, trying to avoid sleepless nights and panic? Nine times out of 10, in these days of modern miracles, it can no doubt be cured with a prescription, I kept telling myself.

At home, unable to think beyond my own anxieties, I plopped in a half dozen CDs, cranked them up, and plunged myself into a major kitchen and pantry makeover. Reorganizing drawers and cupboards made one afternoon fly. The next day I tackled the linen closet, and day three found me fine-tuning two bathrooms. The physical exercise and wearing myself to a frazzle did wonders for my disposition. Now, if I should suddenly pass on, the kids could say, "Yes, our mom was such a meticulous housekeeper!"

Four eternal days passed with episodes of fear, chest pain, palpitations, shortness of breath, and profuse sweating. I had now managed to work myself into a "knock at death's door" frenzy. I thought about calling my doctor's office to inquire what the holdup might be. How long can it take to check out all those samples? Surely the old adage, "no news is good news," must have merit.

And at night I had terrible sleeping problems. I woke up in the middle of the night, pacing about, my canine pal dogging my every step. I had trouble concentrating, even reading the newspaper or watching television. Sometimes I felt a little lightheaded and nauseated. My imagination was on a rampage again, and if I wasn't sick before, I was doing a bang-up job giving myself a full-blown panic attack.

The phone rang. When I heard Maura's voice, I froze. Why had my doctor's nurse been delegated to give me the bad news? "The x-rays, ultrasounds, and lab results show nothing, Kath. Doctor says all is well. It is a non-invasive fatty lump, nothing to worry about currently. Watch it, and if it decides to grow, be sure to come in, OK?"

How silly, I pondered, getting my tail all tied in a dozen knots over this crazy thing. I won't do that again.

Wanna bet?

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