I've decided it's time to get back with the program and go through all those, like, medical tests and stuff. Frankly, I think Annushka's got the right idea - she only goes to the doctor when she's bleeding from her eyes, ears, and fingernails. In short, never.
However, Annushka's got good genes on her side and I don't.
I also consider my re-entering the medical fray as a sign of my improving mental health. (What, after four years, the Wellbutrin's finally kicking in? WTF?)
I made an appointment for a mammogram and took my old films with me. The last time I'd been for one was just as I moved into Ma Maisonette and I felt a couple of lumps where there hadn't been any before. Obviously, all was well because I'm still here to tell the tale.
Before I got out of my car, I put one film up and looked at it. Yup. Yup. Looks like my right boob, all right. I read the pathology report. Yup. Ditto with films of the left one. As I recalled, the gray stuff is okay, but bright white and round is not good.
It all looked good to Dr. Becs. I said philosophically to myself, don't freak out if they call you back because it's been so long and they'll probably want to poke around. In fact, this is what the technician said to me. (Although as I recall, the last time I had this done, it didn't hurt quite so much.)
She showed me the pictures right then and there, with my little half-kimono wrapped around me. "These are lymph glands," she said, and they were a knobby and happy and lymphy looking. "Here's the muscle wall of your chest", and it looked very organized and stripey. "Now," she said firmly, "Here is dense breast tissue, which is a little unusual. But don't freak out if they call you back for an MRI or an ultrasound." Trust me, I am not freaked out.
I went back and got myself put back together. I'm not freaked out. As I left the radiology department, I went past a large, darkened room with "Reading Room" on the open door. I could dimly make out at least a dozen people in cubicles, with soft gray-black lights burning, and dozens of quiet voices murmuring.
How weird, I thought, to have to sit in the dark all day, reading out people's doom or joy.
I only heard one voice clearly and only one phrase. It said, "Pancreatic mass." And I thought as I walked out into the warm, sunny day, have I just heard someone's doom being pronounced? That this stranger walking down the hall would hear the bad news before the person being tested.
It didn't last long. The day was welcome and sunny and warm. And no, I haven't been called back and no, I am not going to freak out if they do.
Horseman, pass by.
2 comments:
Who would be scared by a pancreatic mass, she said ironically.
Starting last year, I've been making an effort to pursue the tests one is supposed to do as a matter of maintaining "wellness", even though I loathe going to the doctor -- what have they EVER done for me, anyway?
But once I force myself to go, I feel good afterwards -- as if, as my father would say, I had a "burst of maturity". And I treat myself to a nice lunch, too.
My sister had to go back for a second look, but it was nothing, and the handout I got just this week said second looks were fairly common, so you are wise to take a "no freak out" stance.
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