Why You Should Never Ask Certain Questions
I’ve always said don’t ever ask what else could go wrong? Or say that things can’t get any worse. The universe has a way of laughing in your face. And, honest, I didn’t say either of those things. The cliché I mistakenly toyed with was that which does not kill us serves to make us stronger. Why the hell do I need to be that strong? I cried out to the heavens.
Okay, add that one to my list of things one should never ask.
During my annual mammogram yesterday, they found “something.” When I went back this morning for a biopsy, they gave that “something” a name. They called it a nodule.
The last nodule I had grew into a monster uterine fibroid that had to be surgically removed six years ago. But I’m not getting into that.
I saw two different doctors and both agree that most likely this nodule thing is nothing. One went so far as to say she was 100 percent certain. She must have seen the look on my face as I prepared to ask: What the hell am I doing here, then? Because she back-peddled and we settled on 99.9 percent sure.
The diagnostic imaging center I’ve always used and loved recently moved into bigger offices. I’m talking HUGE. They made me stow my clothes in a locker and don a pink cotton one-size-fits-all (XXX Large) robe (open down the front, please) and then sent me around a couple of corners, which was sufficient to have me completely lost and no longer capable of finding my clothes should I wish to escape. Then I sat on a table in a room painted a lovely shade of sage green and stared at a TV screen on which my name and age appeared. If I got bored of looking at that, I could study the framed poster showing what fetuses look like at different stages of development.
Kristine, I thought of you.
I was prepped by Stephanie, who wheeled what looked like R2-D2’s cousin into the room. This turned out to be a medical version of a vacuum cleaner. Stephanie also turned out to be a mystery fan (Hi, Stephanie). Then we were joined by the doctor and the ultrasound technician and the torture began.
Okay, maybe torture is too strong a word. The shots to numb the area hurt as you would expect. The rest consisted of a lot of pressure and—not really PAIN, but definitely DISCOMFORT. And R2-D2 made a lot of sucking noise as they vacuumed bits of the offending nodule thing out of my mashed left breast. They finished by placing some sort of “marker” in there.
When that was over, they sent me for another mammogram to verify that the marker had been placed properly. After everything else, they wanted to mash me again??? Sigh. However, what I didn’t realize is the numbing agent makes the mammogram a lot less annoying. Or perhaps it just smashed me less than the biopsy procedure did.
Anyway, I got the green light and directions on how to find my way back to my clothes.
Now, I sit here with an ice back tucked in my bra and orders to take it easy for the rest of the day. No heavy lifting. No training for the Olympics. And I’m thinking: my pots and pans and skillets are just way too heavy for me to being cooking dinner.
The next big question is: whose biopsy results are going to come back first? Mine? Or Skye’s?
Okay, add that one to my list of things one should never ask.
During my annual mammogram yesterday, they found “something.” When I went back this morning for a biopsy, they gave that “something” a name. They called it a nodule.
The last nodule I had grew into a monster uterine fibroid that had to be surgically removed six years ago. But I’m not getting into that.
I saw two different doctors and both agree that most likely this nodule thing is nothing. One went so far as to say she was 100 percent certain. She must have seen the look on my face as I prepared to ask: What the hell am I doing here, then? Because she back-peddled and we settled on 99.9 percent sure.
The diagnostic imaging center I’ve always used and loved recently moved into bigger offices. I’m talking HUGE. They made me stow my clothes in a locker and don a pink cotton one-size-fits-all (XXX Large) robe (open down the front, please) and then sent me around a couple of corners, which was sufficient to have me completely lost and no longer capable of finding my clothes should I wish to escape. Then I sat on a table in a room painted a lovely shade of sage green and stared at a TV screen on which my name and age appeared. If I got bored of looking at that, I could study the framed poster showing what fetuses look like at different stages of development.
Kristine, I thought of you.
I was prepped by Stephanie, who wheeled what looked like R2-D2’s cousin into the room. This turned out to be a medical version of a vacuum cleaner. Stephanie also turned out to be a mystery fan (Hi, Stephanie). Then we were joined by the doctor and the ultrasound technician and the torture began.
Okay, maybe torture is too strong a word. The shots to numb the area hurt as you would expect. The rest consisted of a lot of pressure and—not really PAIN, but definitely DISCOMFORT. And R2-D2 made a lot of sucking noise as they vacuumed bits of the offending nodule thing out of my mashed left breast. They finished by placing some sort of “marker” in there.
When that was over, they sent me for another mammogram to verify that the marker had been placed properly. After everything else, they wanted to mash me again??? Sigh. However, what I didn’t realize is the numbing agent makes the mammogram a lot less annoying. Or perhaps it just smashed me less than the biopsy procedure did.
Anyway, I got the green light and directions on how to find my way back to my clothes.
Now, I sit here with an ice back tucked in my bra and orders to take it easy for the rest of the day. No heavy lifting. No training for the Olympics. And I’m thinking: my pots and pans and skillets are just way too heavy for me to being cooking dinner.
The next big question is: whose biopsy results are going to come back first? Mine? Or Skye’s?
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((((Big Hugs))))