Turning the Page

The weekend could have been filled with anxiety if I had let it. There were moments, to be sure. I woke up in a panic a couple of times--some of which was related to losing my son; other times because of my new diagnosis. 

I heard from my PCP late on Friday. Talking to her was the next step I had to take after receiving my biopsy results. The radiologist had recommended I go for an MRI before seeing a breast surgeon because my tissue is incredibly dense and hard to read. He wanted to make sure nothing was missed. However, when my PCP called, she preferred I see breast surgery first. But it was too late in the day to make an appointment. So...I waited...through Saturday...and Sunday for today. 

The old me would anguish over the upcoming phone call and what it means. I think I have been laden with anxiety my entire life: passing out before blood draws, growing nervous about anything new, having stage fright when I had to give a presentation, etc. To be honest, it doesn't take much. 

But I thought about my son--the one who passed away this year. He went through hell in so many ways. He had a wide array of medical issues, including Lennox Gastaut (intractable epilepsy) where he'd have multiple seizures every day. He had more tests than I can conjure in my mind right now. And he did it all with a smile on his face--with a brilliance that lit up a room. More than a room. 

If he could do all that with an upbeat demeanor, then I sure as hell need to try, too. What does it say about me if I can't look at life through lenses similar to his? 

So at 8:00 this morning, I called the breast surgeon--the same one I had in 2016. The nurse has to order records before she can schedule an appointment. The old me would agonize over this, as well. The new me says, "Hey, that's all you can do for today. Keep living your life." Believe me, it's not always easy. 

Maybe it's my son whispering in my ear. I'd like to think it's him.