I’m getting my nose cut off next week.

Okay, I’m probably not getting my nose cut off, but I always prepare myself for the worst. I’ve always done that. It wasn’t until I read one of Brene Brown’s books last summer that I realized what I’ve been doing all of my life when I’m a little bit afraid. I’ve been “dress-rehearsing tragedy.”

It’s that same feeling we get when we love our kids so very much that we somehow have to imagine horrible things happening to them. I remember reading in college about a Greek leader (just looked it up, it was Draco) who met his death by being smothered to death by cloaks and hats.

So when I had children, naturally I included being smothered to death by cloaks and hats among all of the many ways they might meet their demise. According to Brene Brown, it’s called catastrophizing, it happens when we’re feeling vulnerable, it steals our joy (yeah, I’ve figured that out), and apparently there’s science behind it blah blah blah.

So yes, I’m probably getting a tiny spot with a tiny bit of cancer in it scraped off of my nose.  But hearing “malignant melanoma” (a term that, in the past, I’ve only used for fun to describe my husband) turns on the fear button, I guess. So, it makes me feel better to picture myself without a nose, and then when the whole thing is done, and I actually have like half a nose left and I’m still alive, I’m going to feel damn beautiful. At least in theory.

According to the research, what I should actually be doing to counter fear is feeling and expressing gratitude. I mean, that’s all I hear about these days, gratitude gratitude, blah blah blah…and yes, okay, I agree that is also probably correct. So here goes:

My cousin Leslie, who has had multiple recurrences of melanoma, encouraged me to go to the dermatologist several months ago. Wanye (rhymes with Kanye) decided to go with me, and, wouldn’t you know it, the nurse practitioner was kind enough to let us undress in the same room. (Thanks, lady. I normally try to get undressed when he’s not looking, so as to not stir up any—ahem—unwanted attention.) We took a selfie and sent it to our kids. We were actually pretty tickled with ourselves, and thought we were hilarious.

The NP didn’t like the look of this spot on my nose, so she scheduled a follow-up appointment in six months. For you normal people, that probably means that you’d um, go back in six months, right?

Can I be very, very clear here—I have never actually attended a follow-up appointment for anything in my life. Ever. It’s hard enough to get me to go to the doctor in the first place, but to follow up? Not gonna happen. I will take out my own stitches if necessary, I’ll call and reschedule indefinitely, but one thing I am definitely not going to do is follow up.

Fast-forward five months. My face starts breaking out in this really disgusting, godawful acne, from the nose down. I actually have a picture of that too, but I’m not going to post that here. (However, I can tell you that based on recent experience, if you come over and drink some wine with me, I’ll probably whip out my phone and show you that picture whether you want to see it or not.)

Anyway, I Google “old lady pimples” and figure out that I probably have perimenopausal acne. According to the Internet, it can be treated with medication. So, to make a long story even longer, my friends, that is why I actually went back to the doctor’s office—to beg for anti-ugly drugs.

When I went back, she gave me my drugs, she scraped off my spot, she cured my acne, she found my melanoma, and now I’m probably going to live a little while longer. I am feeling and expressing my gratitude for acne. This is supposed to bring me joy.

I am also feeling gratitude for my cousin, my husband, the nurse practitioner, and also for the fact that I even care about living a little longer, which has not always been the case in my life. YES. I am feeling gratitude.

I still think they’re probably going to cut off my nose, though. Or at least half.