I wrote a funny end-of-summer story but then this routine doctor’s appointment happened, and  . . .  well, what was supposed to be routine suddenly wasn’t. The day my editor receives this column, I’ll be on an operating table having something that shouldn’t be growing in me, removed – and then biopsied.

I’m pretty good at helping others, but I’ve been doing a lousy job at helping myself. I’m not looking for sympathy, not that I’d ever turn it away. But even in funny times, I’ve always written from my heart. I figure if I didn’t, what would be the point?

My poor husband Bob. One morning he gave me 9 cards. He endearingly stood proudly as I opened them. And with each touching thought like, “I’ll protect you from the monsters,” I sank into a puddle of hysterical sobbing. By the last card, I had flung myself back to bed, vowing never to get up unless it was to down a barrel full of Reeses’. I hate that I’ve become a do nothing but feel sorry for myself person.

Sometimes Saralee the Demon appears. Today, Bob stood in front of me and massaged my temples gently. “This makes Eddie (our cat) purr,” he said.

“Oh really,” I said, hissing. He backed away. “Have you seen what sweet Eddie does when he’s hungry and there’s no food?” I slinked toward him, holding my claws near his eyes.

“No, I  . . .  haven’t.” He backed further away slowly.

“Oh really?”

“I get scared when you keep saying ‘Oh really’. I don’t think it’s a good sign – for me, that is.”

Here’s my problem: I know the results of the biopsy are what’s important. But the fear of the procedure is also driving me nuts. I’ll be awake for it and I’ve been engaging in very negative self-talk. “I’m going to panic.” I say, which of course makes me more upset. “I’ll thrash around and try to yank out my IV. I’ll act like a fool. I hate myself for being this way!” And on and on, as you can imagine.

But something good happened this afternoon. I was in the middle of a sigh, making sure it was loud enough for Bob to hear, when it hit me. I was giving myself self-fulfilling terror-laden messages. And I instantly stopped what I was doing (which was nothing, of course) and began this column. “It’s fight back time!” I said.

And so, I have changed my self-talk. It hope it sticks. “Who wouldn’t be scared?” I say. “But talk back to the anxiety – and do it with fervor!"

Negative beliefs make the fear and the racing heart worse. If I counter my thoughts with soothing messages, it can do nothing but help.

“I can tolerate anxiety symptoms,” I say. “I’ve done it a million times. That’s all they are – just symptoms. They feel miserable, but they won’t last.” And then I say to my not-so-brave soul, “If I don’t act like a courageous trooper, oh – who the hell cares?”

“Now breathe  . . .  breathe  . . .  long, deep breaths from your diaphragm. Relax those arms. When they tense up again, relax them again. You can do this! And don’t ever forget,” I say again, “if I act like a trembling coward, it doesn’t matter – to me or to Bob or to anyone who cares about me.”

I’m taking a copy of this column with me. I’ll read it before I am wheeled away. Then I’ll give it to Bob to hold along with my wedding band. When he leans over to kiss me, we’ll both say, “I love you.” I will tell him I will be all right, at least for today. And I will mean it.