So yeah, I found a lump. I knew it had to be a recent development considering I’d just spent the previous week at the beach with my family lathering on sunscreen during the day and aggressively exfoliating all my appendages in the evening in order to lay the appropriate foundation for the fake tan I would then apply with a blue fuzzy mitt. Perhaps well-meaning but patronizing beach goers would no longer feel the need to warn me or one of my family members on my behalf— “be careful, make sure you put sunscreen on that girl and her fair skin?” I wish I was joking, but this has happened to me more than a few times. I had a lot of time with my skin that week, you could say.

I was sitting at my desk the next week working from home, culling my way through wedding photographs. I’ve always struggled with attention span and when I’m doing that kind of tedious work, I often find myself succumbing to body-focused repetitive behaviors (BFRB) like biting my nails or pulling on my eyelashes. I’m trying to stay away from those things now, so instead, I was rubbing my arm, like a mother to a child, subconsciously trying to soothe the inner self that is attempting to *not* burst out of her chair.

As I rubbed my left arm, I noticed a perfectly round lump underneath the skin. At first I didn’t think anything of it. My husband came home from work later that day; of course, I made him feel it. He felt a little more strongly about it and told me I should get it looked at.

I made an appointment with my primary care doctor. She referred me to the dermatologist. An inconclusive biopsy (“the lump is deep, maybe even under the muscle, and we weren’t able to get enough tissue”) landed me at Baptist Easley Radiology to get an ultrasound. No negative news, yet another inconclusive procedure. They decided to refer me to a general surgeon.

Wedged between all those appointments were weeks of waiting. Waiting for phone calls. Waiting for appointments to arrive. Waiting for results. Plenty of time for anxiety to root and spread like an opportunistic weed. Plenty of time to do the thing you should never do: Google your symptoms. I’m embarrassed to say some days I could barely function. I wrestled with God and cried in bed with Brian as I grieved my life. What had I even done with my 30 years? Had I done any of the great and beautiful things that I’d hoped for years ago? Would I never be a mom? I prayed asking the Lord that it wasn’t what I feared most. On my better days, I prayed that if it was what I feared most, that he would help me to live that story well, too; that I would truly entrust my life — my physical well-being— to him for maybe the first time. I wasn’t awesome at it. I trusted God and then didn’t trust God, felt mad at God and then felt so grateful for his obvious constant love and care. In the rollercoaster of those weeks my friends and family and church community prayed for me and with me and tried to distract me and assure me it was probably nothing; my wise, wise nurse sister-in-law banned me from Google (although I did break that rule a few more times, Sarah; I am sorry, and I was wrong).

Fast forward a few weeks— I was feeling a bit more hopeful and less afraid. I noticed that strangely, the lump seemed to have become… smaller? I drove the forty minutes to the surgeon (a man who actually goes to my church). He felt my arm and smiled in reassurance. “Bad stuff doesn’t just shrink or go away on its own. Better safe than sorry, of course. But I don’t think this is anything nefarious and you have nothing to worry about.” I sighed with my whole body and laughed. I felt more relieved than silly. I walked out of the office with tears on my face. “ Thank you Lord,” I uttered out loud. I called my husband and my mom and she brilliantly noted, “You have a normal arm!” Yes, indeed! What a relief. Perhaps the only normal thing about me. Praise the Lord.

Today, I’m writing from Methodical at the Commons. A plastic cup of melting ice and matcha dregs gathers condensation to my left. My biopsy site has healed into a nice spotless lady bug and I am now somewhat of a connoisseur of waterproof bandaids. My heart feels more aligned with those who suffer sickness, those who have to wait on results or insurance or the medical system, those who struggle with trusting God with their bodies and health. I have so much to learn from those who suffer in this way.

Call me dramatic, melodramatic; I won’t deny it. But today I am so thankful. I know the story didn’t have to go this way. But today I am healthy; I am grateful and not proud. I think of the psalmist’s words,

“O LORD, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.” Psalm 131:1.