Hey! Remember That Other Time I Thought I Was Dying

“Lindsay, what is that?” my dad asked while visiting a month ago. He pointed at my back, where a small brown bump was visible above my tank top.

“Oh, that came up while I was pregnant,” I said. “I haven’t thought that much about it.” I paused and looked at him nervously. “Should I?” Dad’s an eye doctor, but he was a resident first, so I’ve always turned to him for medical advice on everything from migraines to croup.

“Let me look at it in the light,” he said. After examining it for a moment, he said, “I think you should have it checked. Better to know for sure what it is, right?”

“Right,” I said. “I mean, if you say so.”

The bump wasn’t mentioned again until Mom and Dad got home a few days later. Then I got an e-mail from Dad that ended with “Lindsay, have that bump looked at SOON.”

SOON. SOON. SOON. The all-caps echoed ominously in my mind. Dad wasn’t an all-caps man. I could only assume that he meant business. Accordingly, I started Googling “back bump” and came up with all sorts of interesting terms. Melanoma. Carcinoma. Squamous basal cell something-or-other. Oh dear.

I was dying. Again.

I called the dermatologist. Once I set the appointment, I felt slightly better- at least, until a week later, when I talked to my mom on the phone.

“Did you make that dermatologist appointment?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m seeing the doctor on August 14th.”

“August 14th?! But that’s a month from now! Lindsay, I think you need to get that bump taken care of right away!”

“You do? Why? Did Dad say something to you about it?” I began feverishly imagining the possibilities. Lindsay’s bump is obviously life-threatening, I pictured my dad gravely telling my mother. I don’t want to alarm her, but the sooner she gets it removed, the more time she’ll have on this mortal coil.

“He said you need to have it taken care of as soon as possible,” she said.

“Mom, I’m leaving tomorrow for LA for nine days!” I said. “I can’t do anything until I get back!”

“Can’t you go to the emergency room?” she cried.

“The emergency room?! No! Are you kidding?”

“Then have it looked at in LA!”

“I don’t know any dermatologists in LA!”

“I’ll have Dad call you!” she said frantically and hung up.

“Dad, give it to me straight,” I said when he called me from his office a few minutes later. “Am I dy…” I couldn’t say the word. “Is August 14th really too late for me?”

“I think it’s best to have this taken care of as soon as you can,” he said ominously.

“Well, I don’t want to change doctors,” I said. “I’ve heard this one is the best dermatological surgeon in town.” And from the sound of things, I thought darkly, I’m going to need the best.

“Okay,” he said finally. “August 14th it is.” I thought I detected a note of resignation in his voice and deep, deep sorrow. Shit.

I left for LA a marked woman. Would this be the last time I ate at Hamburger Hamlet? The last time I surreptitiously peered over The Ivy’s picket fence in search of a celebrity? If so, I wanted to make the best of it. Ignoring the stares of the emaciated customers surrounding me, I calmly ordered one of everything at Pinkberry’s. “I may not pass this way again,” I said solemnly, bravely answering their gazes with my own.

I returned home and imagined my impending appointment with destiny. Not only was there a strange bump on my back, but I also had a mole that was kind of bothering me. And a pink spot. I imagined the doctor examining me and quickly calling in her entire staff. “This woman’s back is literally filled with deadly sqamouses,” she’d tell them. “I’m going to need all hands on deck to get a handle on this before it spreads any further.”

And that brings us to yesterday afternoon, where I sat wringing my hands on an examining table, clad only in a hospital gown and jeans. Who would brush all the tangles out of Punky’s hair? I wondered. Who else would spend five full minutes and half a box of wipes cleaning up after one of Bruiser’s poonami diapers? I wiped a tear from one eye. After an eternity, the doctor came in and began her examination.

“So you have a bump on your back?” she asked casually.

“Yes,” I said, inhaling sharply as she touched it.

“Does it hurt?” she asked with surprise.

“Well. No,” I admitted.

“And you have a mole that’s been bothering you,” she continued.

“Yeah, down here,” I pointed at the small of my back. She looked at it for a moment before looking at my arms, chest and stomach. I steeled myself for the news.

“You’re fine,” she pronounced. “The bump is called a hemoblugabbagemomomonoma. It’s totally harmless. The mole’s fine too.”

“Huh?” I said. I couldn’t even process the information. Had my death sentence been…. revoked?

“As for that bump on your nose,” she continued. “I can get rid of that right now if you want. It’ll take 30 seconds.”

For shizzle? I’d had a small bump on my nose since I was a teenager and always, always hated it. I thought there was nothing I could do about it, short of plastic surgery. This appointment wasn’t going at all the way I had expected.

“Yeah,” I sqeaked. “Get rid of it!”

And so here I sit, bumpless and not dying. I had a small dilemma last night when the invisible bandage they put on my nose came off while I was washing my face and I realized that we were out of band-aids. Besides Punky’s Princess band-aids, that is. So until I manage to get out and buy some replacements, this is what I’ll look like.

I don’t mind, though. Hell, I’ve got my life back.