There's No Good Time to Get the Call

Pardon my French, but the week of January 17 - January 24 was the longest fucking week of my life.

Having been told I would get results within days, I steeled myself for the worst and could barely eat or sleep. "You'll know by Friday," I told myself.

"You'll know by Saturday," I thought.

"There's no way they'll keep me waiting this long," I thought Monday morning.

By Monday night, I was beside myself. At this point, I had also convinced myself that since I hadn't heard anything, well - it's sitting in the No Big Deal pile, while they tackle the So Sorry pile.

Delusion is great.

Having heard nothing and a couple of vacation days to use up, I packed my bags for the snowy landscape of Detroit for the 2019 US Figure Skating Championships. I had several volunteer shifts planned, including ice monitor for the pairs championship short program. Free jackets and swag! Fun with friends! It was going to be a great weekend!

Eager to make it to Detroit, I resisted the temptation to stop by the Coach outlet. And then, I got the call at about 11:30, outside of Brighton.

Dr Beall: "So hey, how's it going?"

Me: "Well, you tell me."

Pause.

"I have the test results back... and it looks like cancer."

I wish I could say I was shocked, but with a history of cancer in my family, I was not. I just thought this was possibly the worst place to find out, eastbound 96. Then I thought there was no good place to find out either.

"Shit."

I wish I could tell you more about the conversation. I empathized with her for having to make THAT call. A former figure skater, she was planning on attending the championships too, and maybe we would run into each other. I thanked her for her thankless task. I had my own phone calls to make.