After my last medical visit a la the ultrasound from hell, I wanted to know when I’d find out what was going on in my “downstairs area”.
Me: How long will it take to get the results?
Them: at least a couple of days. Rest assured, you’ll have plenty of time for worrying.
Me: (heart hammering in chest) Ok.
It didn’t take a couple of days to get the results. The phone rang the very next day, less than 24 hours after the ultrasound, while I was lost in
Naperville trying desperately to find , so that I could make it on time for my mother’s gall bladder surgery. Edwards Hospital
It’s never good when they don’t waste any time calling you with the results.
I listened to the results with half an ear while On Starring and Bluetoothing, watching desperately for street signs, looking for my turn, catching various words here and there out of the speakers. Abnormal. Hyperplasia. Polyp. Cyst. And my absolute favorite, Biopsy.
I’m sure you’re all wondering how serious this really was. And the answer is: It was very serious because I was really, really lost. When I finally found the hospital, I told all this to the valet parker boy, who actually yawned when I told him what an adventure finding the hospital was. Your tip is going to suck, buddy.
Three hours I waited with my sister and stepdad for Mom’s surgery/recovery time. Three hours is quite a bit of time to
freak out reflect on the doctor’s choice of words.
The hospital aide came out to tell us that Mom wanted coffee, and she wanted my stepdad to make it because he knew how she liked it prepared. We all knew then that mom was recovering just fine. **
My biopsy was schedule for two weeks from that day. Two weeks have never gone slower.
Two weeks have never gone faster, and before I knew it, the nurse called me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure, because I’d get a little crampy. That day, I learned something vitally important. What you think is crampy and what I think is crampy are two vastly different things. The nurse on the phone advised me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure. The nurse I actually saw that day in the
room of horrors procedure room felt bad that I didn’t have the afternoon off, even though I sit down at my job.
Of course, I took my cue from her facial expression, (pity mixed with compassion and a side order of sympathy) stiffened up, and unfortunately stayed tense the entire time, making it even far more difficult for the doctor and far more painful for me.
Me: I’m trying! (I am not trying. I'm not relaxed at all, and I don't know how anyone could be.)
|There were many more sharp things sticking out of the tool they used on me.|
Me and my new friend Cramps went back to work that day for a couple of painful hours, then went home and curled up on the couch where I would spend the rest of the night milking this for every single second I could.
It worked. I got pizza that night. And a nap.
They told me I’d get my results back within a couple of days. I selfishly hoped that I wouldn’t get them back on my birthday, so I could sail through my 46th birthday blissfully ignorant of anything biopsy-related. They granted that wish and called me the day after.
This time it was with a good word: benign. It even sounds nice in your mouth. Say it with me: Beeeenine.
Despite the pleasant tastiness of that word, I have to go back and be poked, prodded and ultra sounded one more time, and then my doctor will make a decision on what to do with my whiny self at that point. Obviously, the female issues are being caused by something and they’d like to
find my tolerance for pain figure out what it is.
I’d like for them to figure out what it is too. There are some *cough activities cough* that
we’d I’d like to resume. While I’m still young.
***My mom: recovering nicely. Her surgery that day was at 10:45 a.m. She was home drinking coffee at her kitchen table by 3:30 p.m. looking for all the world like we just popped in for a visit. It was amazing and we're all glad she's ok.