Let me set the scene: I'd just bumped into designer Jason Wu backstage at his New York Fashion Week show and was on my way to the bathroom. Feeling rather encumbered by my oversized camera bag — not to mention tired after a day of marching around NYC to hit as many shows as possible — I was very much looking forward to finding a moment of quiet refuge behind the fancy toilet stall door at The St. Regis Hotel.
I guess that's one way I could count myself lucky in this scenario: I didn't have to take the phone call that would propel me into a state of panic while crammed into one of the port-a-johns that are the standard at most NYFW shows. So I unloaded my gear, sat on the toilet, and reached for the phone in my purse. I was greeted by notifications for a slew of emails, a text from my BFF and a follow up message from my aunt that I should probably respond to. And just as I was about to, my phone started ringing and my doctor's name lit up across the screen. I answered quickly and the physician's assistant dove right in.
"I'm so glad you answered... your results... abnormal pap... atypical cells... here's a reference for a gynecologist specialist."
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