I’m 34 years old, at this age you would think I could get a lump checked without involving my Dad.
My wonderful father who has already been through so much, my beloved Dad who kept me tethered to the earth when 2013 blew up and threatened to rip me from it. You would think I would give him some peace.
I’ve now told A and he has confirmed there is a Lump. He has yet to roll his eyes when I ask at various points throughout the weekend if the Lump feels; smaller, bigger, harder, softer or “just different”. I love him for this. He is being practical, the doctor will confirm what he believes is true, that it is nothing.
I have discussed the Lump with two close girlfriends these conversations are helped by wine. Wine makes me feel braver. We soon move on to other, more cheerful topics.
We all conclude it can’t be anything, it can’t possibly be anything and I won’t tell my Dad until it’s all over. That is the adult thing to do.
I think I last 3 days. I jabber on to him about everything else under sun. If he is bemused as to why I’ve been standing outside Selfridges in the biting wind chatting to him about NOTHING for 20 minutes he doesn’t say. He doesn’t suggest I ring him back later or ask me to get to the point, thank goodness he doesn’t because my only point is to prove how absolutely fine I am.
To give myself credit, I last 2 hours in his actual presence without saying anything but then I do say something and Dad thinks it’s nothing to worry about too.
I shall go to my Doctors and get it sorted.
But now I am worried because my gut is still yelling that something is wrong. In the face of so many loved ones who think the opposite, I wobble. I’ve been here before, the last 3 years robbed me of my sunny optimism and almost my mental health. To put it in West Wing terms, I was a Sam and I slowly became a Toby, but Toby on his darkest days. It cost me, it cost me deeply. I don’t want to be the voice of gloom at this particular party. So I yell back at my gut and all is quiet for a time.