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Good news! (I think.) The dreaded lump has been pronounced a cyst! Guess I wasted a hell of a good worry, huh? Guess we all did. I still need my doctor to tell me what to do next, as E-Bro and Mr. GF both say that you just shouldn’t listen to the radiologist about anything other than the basic facts. My doctor had a death in the family and won’t be back until Monday, but at this point, I can wait.
The mammogram process was as pleasant as could be expected. There’s not much that’s fun about having your breast squeezed between two metal plates, especially when your orders are “Now, let me know when this is as tight as you can possibly stand it.” To be a wimp? Or to grit your teeth and bare (I mean bear) it? I chose the teeth-gritting stance, so they could get the best image possible.
The ultrasound was painless, and she let me see what she was seeing. She did mark me up with a Sharpie, but at least she didn’t draw a face or a mouse with whiskers or anything goofy. But her advice was not overly helpful. “What should I do now?” I asked. “Go through menopause and don’t take hormones,” she said. Gee. Thanks. I’ll get right on that.
The radiologist didn’t come to talk to me – just told the ultrasound tech what to tell me – and everyone kept saying that they’d looked at this before, which they hadn’t, which rather shook my confidence in them. Exactly who did they think they were looking at? But seeing the dark, vacant space on the ultrasound that represents fluid, not solid, was a certain relief.
So now, it goes away by itself, I suppose. I wait.
I wonder what I would have felt around me energetically if things hadn’t been okay? I was pretty sure things were okay, even though I was tearful and worried on Monday night, mostly because I couldn’t feel any clustering of comforting souls, and I am certain that I would have had I needed them.
Time to turn to, as the Captain would say, and focus on the next things…getting my back put back into place, since it went out on Sunday, finalizing the divorce thingamajiggys, and what to do with my work life for the next few years.
There’s hope in the air again.
I don’t like to whine. Truly I don’t. It gets you nowhere and actually makes you feel worse. I hope it seems more like I’ve been documenting my feelings around the divorce rather than whining about it. So my writings about my feelings about the lump are to be of a similar tone. As I say, I hope it doesn’t come across as whining. Let’s call it emotional journalism, shall we?
I gathered my cojones and called the surgeon yesterday. Of course, I got his appointment desk recording, and they said to allow them 24 hours to call back if I was requesting an appointment. We’re at 24 hours now and not a peep. Is it the approaching holiday that accounts for the delay? Or do they just not want me? Am I being rejected by the medical community? I understand that offices can be closed. But do THEY understand what it takes to reach out to a surgeon? I somehow don’t think they do.
It seems with medical “stuff”, you have to make your own arrangements for everything. Call for a mammogram So if I have a mammogram, when do I hear something? And from who? Does that mean I have to schedule something else with the mammogram people? Something else I have to wait for? Didn’t the doctor mention an ultrasound as she was leaving? Call the doctor to confirm. Call for an ultrasound appointment. What were those surgeons names she blithely mentioned as she walked out the door? Call to get the surgeons’ names. Call for a surgical consult – or something - wait, what am I asking the surgeon for? Here’s the name of an oncologist, just in case. When do I call them? And what for? And the name of a breast reconstruction surgeon. Huh? The other surgeon doesn’ t do that? When am I supposed to think about THAT?
And you know what? I’m doing all this and I’m scared. And there’s nothing anyone can do about that. This sort of thing just lingers in your mind. It’s hard to keep from feeling for the lump. Is it bigger? Is it gone?
I am chewing my fingers out of stress, so Denise just gave me a squeezy stress hot dog. That helps. Am I overreacting? I am tired, headachey, exhausted — is it stress? Or am I “sick”?
Pat has taken Kelsea for lunch at the hospital cafeteria – strange, I know, but it’s good, inexpensive vegetarian food. Is it a portent of things to come?
I’m so tired of thinking about this. Where’s the mind eraser when you need it?