There are days when I feel like a hypochondriac - I've had a few too many mild whiplashes for my neck to forget, migraines that come and go depending usually on whether I have something that I NEED to do that day and my bad (and yet, completely unconscious) teeth grinding habit has resulted in a somewhat less than functional jaw (although ladies, having a jaw that can sometimes clamp down and lock makes certain alleged wifely duties sadly ill advised - gosh darn it all).
Seems like there is always something wrong. But really, I never really think about anything really being wrong.
So, a year ago when I visited the dentist and they noticed a little ulceration on my tongue, I thought - ate something too acidic, or it's probably the coke I drink. And, didn't think of it again. Once in a while, I'd notice that the ulceration turned into a white spot. And, I'd think - I really should go to a naturpath and start eating healthier. And, didn't think about it again.
Fast forward just about a year, and imagine my surprise when I was in the dentists chair and doing the 'please no more dental work' prayer, when I notice the hygienist fussing about the white spot.
How long have I had it? Well, it occurs to me that saying a year makes me sound pretty stupid. But it's been a bad year, and I've had lots of other people's fragile health on my mind. And, dude, it's a white spot on my tongue. Then they measure it, and discuss it. Notice I used "they". It's become something of interest to the other dental assistant as well.
Hmmm, the lizard part of my brain says. This is disconcerting.
The dentist comes in and we discuss it some more. She thinks it might be the night guard, but I can't see how since I've had this night guard for... decades. But sure, maybe its the night guard? My interest is piqued by the moving of appointments to get me in to look at the night guard... real fast like....
Then we get an appointment booked for the oral surgeon - probably should do a biopsy, so says my dentist.
Well, now you have my attention. Biopsy. Biopsy=Cancer. Duh. My mom had lung cancer that metastasized to her brain. Not the preferred death in my books.
The oral surgeon meets me and takes a quick look. Without a beat, he says "You're a smoker". Of course, I am a rabid, militant, non-smoker. The kind of person that smokers just hate. My indignation and disdain is evident in my "NO... Never". He says reassuring words about me not being in the risk factor, probably just a thickening of the skin, but he'll remove it and do a biopsy. And, hopefully, then tell me that it was nothing to worry about.
Problem is that I remember the drill from my Mom. I know the "there is no point in worrying" strategy. After all, it's true - worry is the least effective behaviour on the planet. So I'm not worrying, I'm just researching. And jumping to conclusions. And, then having a Scarlett moment "I'll think on that tomorrow"....
Tomorrow my little tongue visitor and it's new little buddy are getting gone. Sliced away. And, hopefully, the oral surgeon will tell me that it was all a bunch of nothing. And, I can stop thinking about how much it would suck. And, I mean SUCK, if its not.
