Looking out for number one

 

 

Not another day, not another dollar—no, that clean little slogan has no jurisdiction here. In this corner of existence, we measure time in appointments, in waiting rooms that smell faintly of antiseptic and quiet dread. Calendars don’t flip—they accumulate. And this week, the tally stands at two. Two scheduled encounters with the modern priesthood of white coats and calibrated concern.

Today’s event: the freckle check.

A deceptively cheerful name for what is, in reality, a full-scale reconnaissance mission against the possibility that the infamous rat bastard charlie—the internal saboteur, the cellular anarchist—might be staging a quiet insurgency somewhere on the skin. And not just anywhere. We’re talking about skin—the largest organ, a sprawling frontier of flesh stretched out like contested territory. Acres of it. Too much real estate to patrol with any confidence.

And so we go in.

There is, I’ve found, nothing quite so efficient at dismantling the illusion of dignity as the clinical ritual of disrobing under fluorescent lights while a stranger conducts a slow, methodical inspection of your mortal casing. You stand there—naked, vulnerable, and suddenly very aware of gravity—as someone half your age and twice as composed circles you like a biologist studying a mildly interesting specimen.

And of course—of course—the practitioner this time is young. Alarmingly young. And female. The universe has a twisted sense of humor when it comes to these things. One of the great truths of medical trouble is this: dignity is the first casualty. It doesn’t fade—it vanishes. One minute you have it, the next you’re holding a paper gown together like a failed conspiracy.

Still, this is the price of vigilance.

With any luck, the verdict will come back clean—no suspicious outposts, no need for freezing, burning, slicing, or any of the medieval remedies dressed up in modern terminology. Best-case scenario: a nod, a polite smile, and a “see you next time.”

But I’m no fool. I expect the usual hedge. A few “areas of interest.” Some “nothing urgent, but let’s keep an eye on it” nonsense. A gentle reminder that the war is ongoing, and the enemy has a habit of hiding in plain sight.

And truth be told—I’m fine with that. My oncologist is a cautious man, and caution has kept me in the game this long. If he wants to sweep every inch of the perimeter for signs of trouble, I’ll stand there under the lights and let him.

So now we wait.

Six hours from now, I’ll have a verdict—clean bill or a fresh list of minor grievances to address in due time. Either way, the wheels keep turning.

In the meantime—pour something reckless, brace yourself, and as I like to say . . .

 

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler