He found a lump. Back before he had heart surgery, I used to joke about Phil’s manssiere, or “bro,” his man bra that was his external defibrillator. The thing used to go off—asking bystanders to step away from the device—during sex. Then he had surgery, where they implanted an internal defibrillator, which I still fear will go off. Though, while I joked, I never implied that my man had actual breasts. He has a manly chest, so it feels wrong to say “He found a lump in his breast tissue,” but, that’s what has happened.

“You don’t worry until they tell you there’s something about which to actually worry.” I’ve heard this advice from just about everyone who’s ever been diagnosed with anything frightening. It’s great advice if you can follow it. Just saying it aloud as a mantra helps me, but then again, it’s not my body. Phil went to get it checked out, first by his primary care physician, then by an oncologist. He had a mammogram, or what I refer to as a “man-o-gram” and other external testing. The radiologist and oncologist agreed, “Whatever it is, it’s not normal.” They couldn’t tell from the imaging if there was blood flow around it, or in it. It could be a cyst, a benign fatty-tumor, or something else. They don’t know what it is, so this Friday, they’re going in to remove it, along with some surrounding healthy tissue and  a “Pizza pie slice of your nipple. Not so much that people at the beach will notice, but you’ll always notice.”

Thursday night, we’re seeing Love Letters on Broadway, and Friday morning, Phil is put under and surrounded by love. Thankfully, his mother is sleeping over to watch the kids. I don’t really know what to expect in terms of recovery time. So, I plan to do a bit of nesting, crockpot cooking, trying to make his life easier. I don’t know how many of you pray, but please keep us in your thoughts. We’ll get back on the saddle soon enough.