Look. I'll be the first person to tell you that I'm not the most chill person on the planet when it comes to matters of health. Might it have something to do with the fact that one time I found a tumor on my 10-month-old baby? Or the fact that members of my family have battled cancer of various sorts? Or maybe because my vagina has fallen apart one time for each of the digits I have on my left hand? It's safe to say that it's probably because of any of those things.
And while I'm not the most dramatic person on the planet, I have admittedly and without reserve wept into my own hands while the soft glow of WebMD lit up my face with its confirmation that I positively-and-most-definitely-probably-likely-possibly-okay-maybe-maybe-not-but-yeah-probably had melanoma. This was so legit, in fact, that I had one of my sisters weeping into her pillow long into the night. We thought I was dying.
I wasn't, in the end. But whatever. Because yes — I am telling you outright, I tend every now and again to worry about lumps and bumps and weird markings and other things of the sort.
And so I should tell you that for the past handful of months, I've had a mystery bump pop up on the first knuckle of my right index finger. It legitimately makes my finger look like an old-lady finger. Uh oh, I've been thinking. It hurts a bit. It's numb a bit. I Google it periodically as though maybe this time some new and revelatory information has broken through and will present itself to me, but nay... I keep landing on the same pages: it's either a cyst, or it's arthritis.
It's a cyst, you say! You're not even 35 yet, Sands! Surely you're not aging far beyond your years!
BUT HEAR ME OUT.
I've been ruminating over a few little nuggets of information swimming around in my brain and I'm treading lightly around a possible conclusion. I broke the news to Daryl the other day while we were out in our backyard picking raspberries and debating over whether or not I might actually be developing arthritis in my finger.
"Daryl, I think I've figured out what's going on with my body," I said. He would not exactly commiserate, I knew, but I forged onward anyway. "I think I might be dealing with some sort of... um... some sort of rapid-aging disorder. A reverse-Benjamin-Button syndrome, if you will."
"OOHHHH! You have R.P.S.! Tooootally, Sands. Oh my god. You do."
R.P.S., of course, is Regular Person Syndrome, he told me.
NO, DUDE. I connected a few dots for him: I went grey at 18, I was diagnosed with secondary infertility due to a loss of my egg reserve by 32, and here at the tail end of my 35th year I've got a little old lady's finger attached to my hand. HUMOR ME, PLAN MY FUNERAL PLAYLIST, BRING ME A DAMN COOKIE I DON'T CARE.
I just have Rapidly Aging Person Syndrome, otherwise known as Opposite Of Benjamin Button Syndrome.
So there's a chance that I'm barreling rapidly toward the end of my days, friends. I can't find anything quite right online, but no matter. I'm headed over to Walgreen's to pick up some Werther's Originals and a floral-print nightie and I'm stuffing little dirty Kleenexes into my pockets and under my pillow as we speak.
And yes, I will of course be haunting that husband of mine long after I'm gone. Sleep with one eye open, Daryl.