I have spent hours studying what the doctor said it "probably" was, remembering the 17 year old accident with bruised breasts, searching for the lump they found. No luck. It's just not there, so I'll have to trust them.
How many rooms are we going into?
Funny how death always does prompt this sick side of us, searching for reasons that they might deserve it more, or at the very least it made sense. Oh, yes, she was a drug addict, so that death makes sense. Oh I see--he lied to his family for years, so maybe this death doesn't feel as bad. But it does always feel bad. It's supposed to. My belief says it's not acceptable, not natural. And we all are equally deserving and undeserving of this horrible separation, however momentary, from the love we know. The little babies, the old prostitute, the guy who never forgave anyone. I wish I could see them in the blanket of kindness my God sees them. But my nature is to hope for an understanding of things I will never understand.
Trying to read the magazines provided to stop thinking about death, because this is just a little needle, a little "pinch and burn," as the nurse says. Then it's over. ta-da. It'll be painless, they reassure me. I want to talk a big game, "I prick my fingers 6 times a day" I want to prove to everyone, "and if I could test the iron in my blood by needle, I'd do that too." Knowledge is power, I want to tell them, but I smile. I reassure the reassuring lady in scrubs that she's doing a good job.
I steal stuff. A recipe out of a magazine from June. "Mexican pickle," with radishes. It's low carb. I steal a sample of moisturizing foundation--just my shade. I wonder if my shade of skin is what all the rich ladies have. I worry about losing our insurance in 48 hours.
The biopsy is simple and it doesn't hurt, weirdest part is the wedge keeping my breast high off the table, and losing feeling in my shoulder. Worst part is new doctor, saying everything's different than the first doctor said, but it's "just ducts." She says papilloma, I don't know that term. She says clogged ducts, that's likely. She indicates that the possibility of something worse is very slim. She says that part faster than the other stuff, I think. She hopes I'll forget it.
We will have results on Thursday. Right in the middle of the dead zone between employer insurance and medicaid. I tell myself not to worry, there's always Go Fund Me. My stomach hurts. I wish I had life insurance, I wonder if my iron is low and that's why I'm so anxious. I wonder if being stressed out will cause a raise in my blood sugars.
No need to check out. One last mammogram. Keep it iced, don't pick up anything over 5 pounds. I don't see how that's possible. Groceries, bottles of water, everything's more than 5 pounds.
The woman in the waiting room told me she got married on Yom Kippur, which made her father in law furious. I'm thinking of interviews of celebrities who got double mastectomies, and now they're fine. I promise myself this is not good thinking. I decide to stop for a snack on the way home. I wish I'd brought someone, and I have no idea who.
And once again I wait for no news.