I am a very regimented person. If my routine gets thrown off, I tend to lose it a little bit.
Every night, after my highly-rated* radio show, I start outlining the next day’s show.
I wake up every day at 7 a.m. I drink a cup of coffee and I take a shit. Whilst I defecate, I scroll through Twitter and think about different topics that will engage the audience. I bullet out some points, and head into the station for a show meeting at 2 p.m.
What sound are we going to use, if any? Are there any angles on a particular topic that I’m missing? Are there any silly bits worth exploring?
Today, though, my routine was disturbed. Somewhere between my shit and outlining the show, I missed a call from my doctor. I’ve been waiting now for a week to find out whether the tumor on my dome is lodged in my brain or my sinus cavity.
I’m a millennial. I have separation anxiety if I go without my phone for more than 15 seconds, yet somehow I missed the call that I’ve been waiting for, for over a week!
When I called back, the woman on the other end of the phone told me that “Doc is in surgery and can call you back later tonight.”
Okay. So today’s the day. I’ll get the news. I just have to get through my award-winning* radio show.
I have an anxiety disorder, but I can’t remember the last time that I was nervous during a show. Radio is fun. It’s what I do.
Today was different.
I couldn’t focus during my opening monologue. I was a sweaty, dripping mess by Segment 2. I was pacing during commercial breaks. I was irritated by things that never would have bothered me.
Between hour two and hour three of my critically-acclaimed* radio program, I got the call.
“Adam, it’s Dr. Redacted. How are you today?”
“Peachy, Doc*. What do you got for me?”
“Good news. The tumor isn’t in your brain or your sinus cavity …”
It didn’t matter what he said after that. From that sentence on he sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Although I did catch the words “likely benign.”
Surgery for removal is now set for the end of next week. I’m not going to die! Well, at least not from this.
After all that, this is going to be easy. Better to cut something out of my skull than cut through my skull to cut something out of my brain.
Surgery? I ain’t scared.*
Today’s Topic A on the show: Sweat.
Number of panic attacks I had today: One. From 8:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.
*-Denotes a lie
Semicolon count: 0