A round bandaid about the size of a quarter is stuck to my nose.
I find the dermatologist’s office in a maze of medical buildings. I know it’s the right place because her name is emphatically proclaimed in raised bronze letters by the door. I fill out four pages of forms and wait in the room named for that purpose along with twelve other women. What? Men don’t have skin?
I don’t get to see the dermatologist.
My guess is she’s presently behind a curtain in Oz. However, the physician’s assistant is available. Another woman (the physician’s assistant’s assistant?) inserts a needle into the side of my nose to numb it. I feel a little woozy so the P.A. A. tilts the chair back until my head is way lower than my feet in order to embarrass me into feeling better. She also gives me a little battery-powered fan so I can blow wind into my face. Then the two of them high-tail-it out of the room. What? Am I radioactive?
I’m told it will be a week to ten days before the results come back from the lab. The area of concern is small, only about the size of a dull pencil’s point. Chances are it’s basal cell which is not life threatening by any stretch, or it’s nothing at all. I’m supposed to wear this thing on my nose for a week, which seems a bit excessive to me.
But who am I to argue.
I remember when a bandaid on my face would make me self-conscious. That was a very long time ago. The great thing about “maturity” is you don’t give a flying whoop what’s on your face, as long as you’re healthy. So, as the saying goes, I’m good to go. Go where?
Outta here, that’s where!
I’ve got a signed contract on my house, and Felix has gathered up his cash and is ready to part with it. All that’s left is for the attorney to say the title search is done. My attorney . . . She looks like she should be texting her middle school pals instead of handling real estate transactions. When I was outlining the conditions of the sale, I half-expected her to break in with “OMG, he’s paying cash? LOL!”
Felix and I go over the contract together at my kitchen table.
We review each of the items in the contract and sign. I bring up the topic of Janie and how we’re going to transition her to living with him and his son, Julio.
Well, well, well . . . That’s when the proverbial bomb hit the fan. Huh? Whatever.
Felix casually comments that Janie will have to be an “outside dog.”
My brain slows into shock. “What do you mean she’ll have to be an outside dog?”
Felix looks down at Janie, peacefully resting on the kitchen floor. “I’ve got an allergy. I can’t have her in the house.”
“WHAT?” I am stunned.
“ I guess I could get a dog house and . . .”
I cut him off.
“No, no, no. Janie is used to sleeping inside and coming in and out pretty much as she pleases. If you can’t continue that for her, I’ll have to find someone who can.” Felix! Why didn’t you tell me about this allergy sooner! Now, after all this time, I’ve got to find her a home in a matter of days . . . .
What to do in a crisis?
Go to the computer, that’s what. I frantically email a few friends, but, to tell the truth, only one seems to be a possibility. . .
And thank God in heaven, she emails me back saying, “Yes.”