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Ruining a Perfectly Good Panic Attack



I see my new primary care physician this Tuesday and get to go to see a dermatologist on Thursday. (Just another “ist†in a long line of special “istsâ€)


I am actually excited about seeing the new primary care doctor since I sent my husband in as a guinea pig first a few weeks ago to see how involved the doctor is, and watched in amazement as my reluctant hubby went through blood testing, x-rays, a stress test and being referred to a gastroenterologist for his very first colonoscopy. Not only that, but the doctor himself called back with all of the test results he has so far and wanting to jump right in for treating!


Such a huge change from our last doctor, who was a wonderful man and a pleasure to talk to but never actually got around to doctoring. He thought anything you brought up to him was very interesting but that was the extent of it.


My trepidation stems from going to see the dermatologist because I already know that there are skin biopsies in my future and I detest needles and cutting and all of that, especially since local anesthesia has a limited effect on me.


I have thickened skin on the sides of my feet that I just attributed to age, but no amount of pumice stone or moisturizer makes a difference and the middle knuckle of every finger on my right hand has a strange little pad over it, and though my skin elsewhere is elastic I discovered that I cannot ‘tent’ the skin on my fingers… something I actually used to do when nervous. Well, the best way to find out what is going on will be for the dermatologist to take a little sample.


I was well on my way to an enjoyable little panic attack that I could break myself out of with a pity party day of bad movies and a naughty sugary treat. Yes, I start planning my ‘me’ day the moment I start stressing, waiting for that perfect time to bring out the DVD collection and eat a 'bad for me' treat guilt free because my nerves would burn off any calories. Tomorrow would be the day and I had my treat picked out and waiting, wrapped in wax paper as only the messiest treats will do, when my husband asked me what was wrong.


Well, I explained that I was nervous about the biopsies, that the ones on my feet would not bother me too much because I would not be using them all that much anyway, but my hands would bother me. He listened intently and then he went and ruined it all…


“Penny, you can’t feel your hands, so it won’t bother you at all.â€


I stared at him for a moment, forming words that never came out because he was right. With my nerve damage to my hands I don’t feel things like that-- the dermatologist could take the samples and if I wasn’t watching I would never know.


“Well thank you very much, you just don’t understand,†I stated in a huff, because now I was all worked up to watch a couple of movies and eat my treat and the reason had vanished, meaning that the cream cheese and pineapple Danish would once again have caloric value.


Time for a different perspective and a new day, so tomorrow I shall throw my very first “I am glad my hands are numb†day and celebrate with bad movies and a 'bad for me' treat -- the celebrating will surely burn off all those calories -- maybe even enough to add a coffee smoothie to the party.


It is good to start new traditions, but I am still mad at the hubby for ruining a perfectly good panic attack and, for that reason, I think I shall choose chick flicks for the movies and invite him to join me and watch each and every one of them.


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