“It’s not hard, which means it isn’t cancer. Cancer is hard.” The doctor said as he washed his hands. I had never thought about the density of a disease before. Which were the soft ones? Lupus sounded pretty squishy, same with pemphigus. Celiac was a toss up.
“It most likely a ganglion cyst, which are completely normal. Just keep an eye on it. What finger was it on again?” I told him and he scribbled onto a piece of paper that he put into a manila folder with my name on it.
“The ring finger, huh.” The doctor looked at me before expelling an intrigued “hmm” and wishing me good day.
As I biked home the lump on my finger pushed into its neighbour like it had fallen asleep on an airplane. What the hell did “hmm” mean? Was there something curious about the cyst being on my ring finger? Or was he surprised that someone from my generation still subscribed themselves and their digit to the increasingly antiquated institution of marriage?
Maybe this was all just a sign that marriage wasn’t for me; my body had stood up when dared to “speak now or forever hold your peace.” If so I wouldn’t be too torn up about it. Marriage has always looked like the gaudy ribbon at the finish line of a race I don’t want to run through. Why celebrate your love while it’s still happening? How vain and impatient. Throw a party when your spouse dies or you get a divorce. “Look how far we made it!” is much more impressive than “look at us doing this thing we’ve been doing consistently for a while.”