I got the worst news of my life this week and my husband got the best news of his life—the Liz Claiborne Outlet, right off of the Osceola Parkway has closed. This startling development gave me a headache. Sherwood is still dancing—badly; he only has one move and a gimpy knee.

         The other news I got this week is pretty good.  The giant pulsating lump on the side of my neck is probably not cancer.  Cool! I tried to celebrate by going to the Liz Claiborne Outlet and touch all the clothes. It was not to be.

         I had to have the giant pulsating lump on the side of my neck (that is probably not cancer—this time) checked out this week by a personal care physician. Having been through the cancer dance once or twice, I was so distraught while filling out the information sheet that I forgot how old I was and I wrote thirty, but then I had to add a plus sign and the number twenty, followed by an equals sign and the grand total of fifty. Somehow I had managed to boil my life down to a math equation, a second grade math equation.  I hate math.

         My doctor poked. I wore a paper towel. She suggested that the giant pulsating lump was (most likely) a cyst.  I squared my shoulders under the paper towel.  She suggested that it be removed. I slumped. The paper towel sagged in all the wrong places.

         She shook her head, clucked, and said, “With your history . . .”

         I suggested that I name the cyst and keep an eye on it.  She suggested that it would, in her opinion, continue to grow and that my friends might start calling me “Old Cyst Neck.”   

         I said, “Not my friends.  I have good friends.  The problem is I have bad kids.  They will point and chant painful nicknames—directly at me, while I’m awake.”

         My personal care physician then said, “Well, here’s the deal.  You have good insurance that covers giant pulsating cyst removals.  Medicaid does not cover cyst removal and Obama-care will likely follow the Medicaid model, and not cover cyst removal. It won’t be too long before the private insurance companies drop cyst removal, so they can compete.  FYI.”

         “So, what you’re saying is that my insurance is going to get a lot less, well . . .  a lot less.”  I sighed.  “Hey, Doc, can you make the scar look like a vampire bite?”  

         She thinks I’m kidding. 

         So, this is the week that I had my first run in with the new and cutting edge world of universal health care, and as a person whose doctors caught the malignant melanoma before it spread through my bloodstream to my entire body, and whose insurance kept the bills to a lot less than the national debt, I have some questions about the efficacy of the new “free” health care system in relation to my personal cysts—also the mysterious closing of the Liz Claiborne Outlet.

Linda (Scar Neck) Zern