Living with a chronic condition had made me paranoid. I knew I was paranoid, but couldn't stop myself. I think Cobain was right.
Dr. Generous came in and took a look. She dug through her drawer, her back to me. I cringed, picturing a biopsy, a trip to the hospital. Crazy. Crazy. Motherhood nightmares. Until the doctor turned to me and laughed. The cure? Rubbing alcohol, to buff away the congealed dirt patch. Her neck was dirty. Dirty.
Talk about feeling chagrined.
Dr. Generous tried to soften the blow. I mean, I had just spent $15 and my mental health for someone to wash my daughter's neck. She said it's an uncomfortable place to scrub, that I shouldn't be chasing my kids around with a washcloth at this stage. She made me laugh. She shouted down the hall to the nurse, something about how she was a miracle worker.
We left feeling sheepish, Lexi was ashamed. I stopped her in the parking lot and looked her in the eye. It's better to laugh with the doctor than to wait. Better to listen to your body. Better to take care of yourself.
And then I teased her about her filthy, sweaty neck and took her for ice-cream.