Fourteen years ago, just weeks after Lexi was born, I noticed a lump on the inside of my left thigh. I was twenty-four at the time, severely sleep deprived and hormonally poisoned so when I first stumbled upon the lump I naturally thought I was going to die. But my doctor reassured me the lump was just a lump and so did every other doctor who I insisted check out my lump. Yeah, that dental appointment. SO AWKWARD!
In the past couple months, the lump has gotten bigger so I decided to schedule an appointment with my dermatologist.
Dr. N is a short, efficient man who likes to talk about things I’d rather not think about like puss. He runs his practice old-school style. He fetches his own patients in the waiting and doesn’t bother with things like nurses. He just walks you on into the exam room and is all: What?
So I was all, "Well, I have this thing. It's like...you...know...on...my leg."
Dr. N replied, "Yes?"
Just yes, that's it? Help me out here, Dr. N! No nothing? Just continue uncomfortably babbling?
Then I said, "I have to take my pants off."
And then he said, "I'll wait outside."
Once Dr. N left, I pulled off my pants and set them on the chair next to Heidi. Yes, Heidi was with me and thank goodness because she looked over at me sitting on the examination table, a paper blanket across my lap and told me I looked like an “Egg McMuffin.” A what? An “Egg McMuffin.”
At first I thought it was because I was covered in a paper wrapper. But then she pointed towards my feet and I realized I was wearing two different socks. Mother of...can I not make it through one day, ONE DAY, without humiliating myself? Then it occurred to me she was calling me a ragamuffin.
Phew, thank goodness that humiliating moment was over. Now, on to the next!
Dr. N spent longer feeling my lump than I would have liked. Once he finally looked up, I'd already gone to worse case scenario. He began telling me some medical gibberish, and then told me I have a fatty tumor, and then he went on to say a;lskdfj;alkdsjfa klsdjf;lkasjdfkjuhyuweg hrwb;3kefvj’i b[oa h;lwkejf skjdfaksd jfkajsdf;kj a;lskdfj;alkdsjfa klsdjf;lkasjdfkjuhyuweg hrwb;3kefvj’i b[oa h;lwkejf skjdfaksd jfkajsdf;kj!!!!!
All I heard was tumor.
It is my sincere hope that medical schools will begin teaching their med students that when explaining to their patients that they have a non-cancerous tumor they throw their arms into the air and shout BENIGN. A BENIGN TUMOR. Not a fatty tumor, not some other Latin word for a benign tumor, just plain old benign tumor. The kind that isn't going to kill you!
Finally, I interrupted his mesmerizing explanation of skin layers and asked if I was going to die.
He looked at me like, No duh, that's what I was just saying.
OK then! Get on with the damn point, man! Forget the medical mumbo-jumbo and give it to me straight, even if straight means you’re calling a part of me “fatty.” Just call it a benign tumor from the getgo.
Actually, just call it what all the other doctors have called it: a lump.
