Either I Have Hypochondria or Skin Cancer for the 23rd Time This Week

One evening not long ago, I returned from a walk, took my shoes off, and something on my big toe caught my eye.

There was a large, ominous-looking blotch on it. The blotch started on the top of my toe, wrapped around the side, seeped between my first and second toes, and traveled to the point where my toe became my foot. It was multiple shades of almost black, dark brown, and tan and had a weird irregular border.

Bill was sitting in his recliner - shockingly still awake because, you know, he was sitting in his recliner. I put my foot on his lap and showed him my toe. He looked at it and then spread my toes apart and looked closer. Then he pushed on it and asked:

Did you bump it?  Nope

Do you remember anyone stepping on it?  Nope

Does it hurt when I touch it here or here?  Nope and nope.

And then he said, "That doesn't look good," making it clear he missed the chapter in the No-Shit-Sherlock manual titled "Always Reassure Your Anxiety-Plagued Wife When She Thinks Something Is Wrong." (My response was so shrill that dogs may have heard it in a neighboring state.)

I'm not going to lie; that blotch frightened me. For peace of mind, I took a picture of my toe and sent it to a friend who works for a dermatologist. Surely, it was nothing, right? 

This is what she sent back:

I don't want to alarm you, but you should get that checked out soon.

WHAT?!

I tried not to make a big flipping deal out of it, but I couldn't help wondering if I had a Bob Marley situation going on. Of course, I panicked and thrashed around the kitchen like a dying salmon, wondering: Where do I go? Urgent care? Do I make an appointment with my PCP? Or go to whatever dermatologist I can get into ASAP?

Eventually, Bill pointed out that there would be no answers that evening and suggested I take a hot shower so I could relax, go to bed, and deal with it in the morning - but mostly, I suspect he said that because my howling was making it hard for him to hear the television.

Let me take a brief parenthetical to say that Bill has always been incredibly supportive during my anxiety episodes and made a great suggestion because there is no problem a steamy, hot shower can't wash away or help solve.

So I got into the shower, washed my hair, mentally prepared myself for doctor visits, tests, and possibly surgery, inhaled the good stuff, exhaled the bad stuff, life-coached myself into an I-can-handle-this mindset, and then, when I leaned over to stretch my back I noticed something...

My toe looked better. The more soapy water flowed over it, the more the brown, blotchy mess seemed to disappear.

It turns out I am a Grade A moron who unknowingly dropped a blob of self-tanner on her foot that morning.