I’m finally going for that sonogram today. I actually wrote this post yesterday, so technically, I’m going tomorrow, but it doesn’t make a difference because I’ll be just as scared today as I was yesterday, but hopefully not as much tomorrow.
While you’re reading this with your morning coffee, I’ll be sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office with my ex-wife (whose right leg will be shaking uncontrollably), waiting for my name to be called so I can then utter my father-in-law’s immortal words (and my favorite sarcastic phrase in the world):
Let’s get this good time over with!
I’ll pretend that this whole nightmare is really no big deal and that I’ll be okay and Caryn will know that I’m really scared shitless and she’ll begin to joke about how I’ve always been such a big baby and then we’ll reminisce about how we went through a similar ordeal more than two decades ago.
And how she asked me right before we went to Thanksgiving dinner not to tell everyone that I had just been diagnosed with testicular cancer because the news didn’t exactly go with mashed potatoes and gravy, but did open the door to one too many giblet jokes. And we’ll both laugh that type of hesitant laugh you laugh when something isn’t really funny.
I’ll be the youngest man in the room and that won’t make me feel any better because all of the older faces here already look pale and stricken like they have cancer and wait a minute, that’s not what I want to look like when I grow up, so fuck all of you incontinent, cancer-encrusted dudes, I don’t have cancer! And that’s what I’m doing here today, I’m here to find out that I don’t have cancer.
“I don’t have cancer,” I’ll say to Caryn softly.
“I know you don’t, babe,” she’ll say.
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” she’ll say. “So shut up about it!”
And then she’ll reach out and hold my hand.
I’d ask you guys to wish me luck, but we all know how that usually turns out.