ArcaMax

It's never good when you get the doctor on the phone to update you on the results.

This could have been a slightly chirpy column about how this millennial went for her first mammogram. But now it's another essay about the in-between -- before answers, before action.

Thanks to the state of our medical world, I'm now waiting for an unspecified office to verify my insurance and then call me to schedule an appointment for a biopsy.

I'm right in the thick of friends encountering disease. There are standard breast cancer scares, a sprinkle of dementia, and some blood being in places it shouldn't. Ah, back to the days when we'd joke about carpal tunnel and our sedentary computer life that slide us into the mundane talk about probably needing to watch our cholesterol or lipids or whatever the Olds watch out for.

But the Olds is me. A classic pinched neck muscle over the Christmas break led to a nerve study to confirm that it wasn't carpal tunnel. Unfortunately, in the past month, I've slid straight into a case of cubital tunnel syndrome -- what the hell even is that? -- with a side of, "Is the thing that fed my kids going to kill me?"

It's funny; I didn't need actual capitulations to the possibility of mortality to leave me crashing out existentially. About three months ago, I walked onto that plank after watching a makeup tutorial and having a stray thought of, "Oh, I'll get around to learning how to do that. Someday."

Except, someday may never get here. I may run out of time to do all those little things I've chalked up to that board in my mind.

Spoiler: As I was writing this, I got an appointment for three weeks from now.

And now there's a certain new madness in waiting. Three weeks of knowing something might be wrong but not knowing how wrong. Time becomes elastic in the worst way. It's the kind of experience that makes you hyperaware of your body; every ache and every twinge is suddenly a potential harbinger of doom.

There's this urge to plan, to prepare. I remind myself that knowledge is power -- but only the right kind. It's the difference between calmly reading trusted sources and falling into a 2 a.m. Google rabbit hole that ends with death. It's always death. There's no preparation for that.

The thing about waiting is that it demands a forced surrender -- not to fear, but to the reality that this is just a moment, stretched out and unbearable, or full of love and sweetness, but still just a moment. The clock keeps ticking. The news will eventually come. Three weeks will pass. Let's wait in the moments we have.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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