Dear Doctor...

I feel it only right that I tell you how much you scared the bleepity-bleep-bleep out of me. My life expectancy was cut by no fewer than three days, and a few gray hairs appeared ahead of schedule. I just want to suggest that you never again end an examination with "Is there history of breast cancer in your family?" followed by "Come see me in my office when you've dressed." And what happens when I get to your office? You ask if I need any prescriptions refilled and mention NOTHING about breast cancer, or any other kind of cancer.

You've been my physician for several years now, and I've come to appreciate your your care and concern, your personable manner, your attention to detail. But I gotta tell you, Doc, this wasn't your smartest move. How could you not know that I would stand there in that attractive hospital gown, speechless, frozen in place (and freezing, literally), freaked out and trying to remember how to breathe?

In those short minutes it took me to get dressed, here's what went through my mind.

First: OH shit, what now?

Second: What should I tell Catherine (my boss)?

Third: Maybe it's early.

Fourth: What the hell?

Fifth: Who should I tell?

Sixth: OH shit.

Seventh: What do I do?

Eighth: Probably have to go see some specialists?

Ninth: Can call Lydia (a friend who just finished chemotherapy).

Tenth: Okay, suck it up.


Yeah, it wasn't fun.

Before this, I had never given much thought to the C-word. There's very little history of it in my family. One aunt succumbed to lung cancer more than 20 years ago, and an uncle to prostate cancer just weeks ago. No breast-related issues at all on my maternal or paternal side. But now, I'm still reeling from that moment. I'm half expecting you to call with a follow up question. It's freaking me out.

On the bright side, I will likely be back to my normal head-in-the-clouds self by next week. But for the time being, you've screwed with my usual copacetic existence.

And for that, can I get a refund on my $25 copay?

See you next year.