I have a hole in my sock, so my toe is peeking out and it’s freezing (I’m wearing shoes–just slides, though).
The snow is falling.
And I recently made two doctors’ appointments.
Understand me: I hate doctors’ appointments. I do not hate doctors, as I feel that they provide an indescribably important service. I know I will need them someday. I will certainly want one there to quarterback my baby as it’s born in a hospital, with all the appropriate anesthesia and precautionary options, and green scrubs and masks. And thank God for all the doctors who’ve helped maintain my family’s health and lives throughout the years.
But since I’ve entered my panicky adult days, I have anxiety attacks about every appointment I make. Will the dentist find a cavity? Because I’m pretty sure I have one this time. What awful disease will they tell me I have? Is that pain in my back because I sleep funny? Or do I have a tumor? Am I dying?
The worst thing that I could ever possibly hear is, “We’d like to do some tests.” And then, “We’d like to do more.” And God forbid, “You have [fill in the blank].”
I feel healthy–minus said cavity–and I haven’t been told that anything’s wrong with me. I just fear it so much.
Mike told me to chill out. So did Mom (even though she sympathizes…as she freaks out at every doctors’ appointment, too). Dad told me to quit whining.
I don’t wanna go, but I will. RAWR.