So, I’m making stuffing – two kinds of stuffing. One gluten-free quinoa stuffing, one traditional, comfort-food bread stuffing.
I pick up my phone to check my recipe, and I notice there’s a voicemail. So I check it.
It’s my doctor’s office. The nurse would like me to return her call.
I went for my postpartum all-good a couple weeks ago, and while we were at it, the midwife did my yearly and got some baselines. The visit crossed my mind, um, not at all after I walked out the door.
You hear this all the time. No news is good news, and we’ll call you if something’s up, they say. And I got a call. My mind starts racing. I’m searching my mental files for all of the tests I had done, and I’m thinking about all of the possible risk factors I might have for all sorts of illnesses.
Cancer, I thought. My knee-jerk reaction is always oh crap, they’re going to tell me I have cancer. I could get a broken toe checked out, and I would secretly wonder if they were going to tell me that this imaginary cancer had already metastasized to the bone. My mind always goes there.
Such things tend to crop up when you were once one of those sixth graders whose mom started wearing a wig.
I returned the call, and got the nurse’s voicemail. I left her a message which made her “it” in our game of phone tag. Then, I waited.
I made stuffing. I played with my baby on the floor. I thought about my older kids, who were at their program at the time. I started the cranberry sauce. I felt compelled to call my husband and tell him how wonderful he was. I held my sleeping baby and listened to him breathe. I straightened my kids’ stuffed animals on their beds. I crossed steps off of my Thanksgiving to-do.
About two long hours later, the nurse called back.
We checked your insurance, and those tests we talked about are covered by your plan.
No cancer. No nothing.
I was left with true thankfulness on my heart.