Four weeks ago I not only got a call I had to pack and move house with 24 hours notice, but I also got a call from the doctor saying I needed a biopsy. So I’ve been sitting around waiting for a letter from the hospital to confirm an appointment. I finally get the letter and my appointment is six weeks away.
And what’s with the patient ID? I’m not sick.
I realised although I’d been trying not to think about it, my subconscious had its hands on the steering wheel, and those hands were a little shaky. They were causing my emotions to totally veer off the road.
Instead of witnessing, I was reacting. Instead of observing, I was identifying it as real. Socrates was right when he said that there is no illness of the body, apart from the mind.
That’s when fuck off became necessary. I wasn’t going to let Patient ID: 2114060 become the reality I created. So I packed the letter into my old kit bag and tucked it away, ready to be pulled out on 13 October.
Care first. That’s what the letter said. Worry later, when and if it’s necessary.
What are you worrying about? Aren’t there too many other bloody ripper things to do?
Fuck off worry. I’m busy.