I was filled with hot coffee, toasted bagel, and the afterglow of warm chit-chat when I finally returned home from that morning's run. But my teeth were chattering anyway.
This is not unusual.
Even if I'd skipped the social hour, the cold would set in before I'd made it home.
As I turn and walk into the stream of the shower, stepping over my clothes that are now in a damp heap on the floor, I anticipate the kind of warmth that will set in if I let myself linger in the spray.
The water hits me like hot needles; finding places I hadn't known were slicked with perspiration or gritty and irritated with salts that had dried onto skin.
A burning sensation surprises me.
I know from that particular sting when I look down, there is likely to be a patch of grated skin or a sunburn.
A blister, maybe? A cut?
I don't see anything amiss until the last drop of water escapes through the drain, and I slide the curtain open.
As I reach for a towel, I catch a splotch of bright red in the pile of clothes next to it.
My mind is slow to grasp there is blood where blood shouldn't be.
But when it does, the air around begins to pulsate. I hear no other sound besides the bifurcated thud of my heart.
Next, I do all of the things I have learned over the years to keep my involuntary systems from becoming overwhelmed. Most of which involve slow-playing every fearful thought I can imagine from this moment until the one in which my brief existence on Earth comes to an end. And THEN telling myself NOT to panic.
This never works.
What helps is that under closer inspection, I could find no active bleeding.
I managed to get through the next few hours by the tasks of distraction and deciding on a reasonable timeline.
When will I call the doctor? Do I wait until happens again? Or do I call today ... or tomorrow? Do I call them next Tuesday I'm never?
The correct answer is lunchtime.
Instead of loading up on carbs, I chew on my fingers while I wait on hold for 22 minutes expecting to schedule an appointment three months out.
When the music stops a voice at the other end of the line says ... "We have a cancellation, can you come in at 2?"
All of a sudden I can't breathe. I am comforted and alarmed at the same time.
They think this is serious. It must be serious. Like a heart attack.
By the time I'm wrapped in a paper gown with my legs dangling over the edge of a pleather-bolstered exam table, I have almost resigned myself to a future without me.
I try to downplay my thoughts as I explain my symptoms. Winter skin? Overly long, scaldingly hot showers?
The doctor is quiet as she gently examines my complaint.
"It looks like a tiny cut there. Most likely chaffing as you were running. I wouldn't worry. You may want to use some kind of protective cream before long runs."
I wonder aloud if maybe I should lay off the long showers?
She shrugs “This stage of life it's normal to experience a loss of elasticity and … some atrophy. I'd just try the cream for now and see how it goes. A little dab should do you."
Aging really can rub you the wrong way.
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