Panic not at the disco.

I’m going to get that sonogram a week from today and have been praying to what’s-His-face, usually first thing in the morning and sometimes late at night when I can’t shut off the caffeinated monkey voices in my head. Here’s what I’ve been saying:

Please don’t let me have cancer! Please don’t let me have cancer! Please don’t let me have cancer! Please don’t let me have cancer! Please don’t let me have cancer! Please don’t let me have cancer! Please don’t let me have cancer!

After a few minutes, I start singing it to the tune of the old Animals song “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.” It’s become my new mantra and the truth is, I’m not really even asking Him (and not even sure why I keep capitalizing the H either, although I’m told He’s kind of into it), I’m really just trying to convince myself that I’ll be okay.

By simply putting the words out there to the Universe (cap U intended), maybe whoever’s in charge or even some Twilight Zone-looking aliens or, you know, really anyone who is kind enough to listen will listen, and when I go for the sonogram next week, the doctor will tell me that I’m clean and I’ll start crying like a baby, you watch.

I didn’t plan to write this. I was working on another post about beginnings and endings, and as soon as I started to riff about how I’ve always hated all kinds of endings and how I usually handle (read: don’t handle) goodbyes, the “Please don’t let me have cancer” refrain came spewing out, and even as I write this now, I have no idea what’s coming next.

It’s the opposite of writer’s block — a literal panic attack — and the only way I know to calm myself down. I don’t know where it will lead but hope/pray that I arrive at a place where I feel like my old self (sans cancer), and that it’s not my time just yet.

That’s exactly what my friend Ralph said the other day and Ralph is never wrong and right now, that’s good enough for me.