So a couple of weeks ago, hubby says, “Either you make an appointment with a psychologist or…”
I pick up my phone and call the hospital. “Can I please have the number to Dr. P’s office. Yes. The dermatologist.”
You see, the situation with the tiny mole behind me has come to a head. My fingers have spent so many minutes acting like a heat-seeking missile that my arms actually ache from loss of blood flow. Okay, not really, but it’s been bad. So bad that my five-year old says to me: “Mom, I give up. I don’t want the job anymore.”
“What job?” I ask, two fingers ceaselessly caressing the back of my head.
“Your mole!” She exclaims. “I’m tired of telling you to stop touching your head. I quit.”
And just like that, she turns and leaves the kitchen. Hmm? I think this moment calls for a two second scratching of my head. Staring at my hands like I have Desdemona’s blood on them, I can deny it no longer: this is out of control. Continue reading