My nerves have been on edge this week. I could list about ten reasons why that is, but I’ll save you the invitation to my Pity Party. Instead I’ll say that it’s completely ridiculous to stand in front of a dermatologist (so she can look at one little questionable spot) and be told that it will be a year’s wait for her to look at the rest of my body.

Yes, I have a dermatologist appointment for July 31, 2013. Gosh! Hope I remember.

Two years ago I had a small spot removed. I remember it clearly because the procedure was scheduled for the same day we had Hank put down. It was an intentional double-whammy so I could get all my tears out at once.

Anyway, it appears that the same type of spot has regrown in another place so after a three-month wait to get it checked, the doctor indeed performed a biopsy. Afterward, I fully expected her to ask about the rest of my skin, and when she didn’t, I asked her about it. She said I could have a full-body scan done in a separate appointment.

Okay, I thought. In a few weeks?

Nope. One year. That’s how long the wait is. I stood there looking at her with all my skin right in front of her face, including a patched-up spot she just butchered, but she will not look at it intently for another year.

This is why I have chosen to bury my nose in a book every morning, every afternoon, and nearly every night. It’s my favorite form of escapism, and currently, that’s just how I deal.