Roughly around this time last year, I found a lump in my neck.
It was right around the Jewish holidays, and I was going to synagogue with my parents the next day. On the way to shul, I pointed it out to my mom, a nurse, and said, “Tell me I don’t have to call the doctor about this.”
In June I had undergone a second abdominal surgery for endometriosis. The recovery was slow and painful. The tests, doctors’ appointments, and prep in the weeks leading up to it were mentally and emotionally draining. The battle with my insurance company to get some sort of reimbursement was soul-crushing.
I couldn’t face more medical travails. But of course, after feeling the lump, my mom responded with the answer I didn’t want to hear, “You have to call the doctor for that.”