Soldier: Oh, God is testing us.
Boris: If He’s gonna test us, why doesn’t He give us a written?
Love and Death
There is yet another test just after lunch tomorrow. It ought to be a scary one, but really, I don’t care how this one turns out. If it’s bad stuff, then it will get worked on. If it’s wait-and-see, then that’s still okay because finally, someone is looking at this thing that has stubbornly refused to capture attention from anyone other than me. I just want somebody to take it seriously. Well, someone already has. I was almost out the door of my doctor’s office a few weeks ago, giving her a report of all the litany of tests she set off when she sent me to a pulmonologist. I made an offhand comment on what I thought was an unimportant incidental finding on the CT scan. Doc immediately got a focused look on her face and said, “I don’t have that report. I want that report.”
I had an ultrasound a week ago. Tomorrow I have a fine needle aspiration. I should have results by Tuesday at the latest. I called to make the follow-on appointment with the specialist as soon as my doctor’s office gave me the number, but I called too soon. They hadn’t gotten the notes yet, and thus gave me the first regular appointment, more than a month out. If this is nothing urgent, I suppose that would be fine. If it’s time-sensitive, I can ask to move it up.
I spent the weekend reading a long article (133 pages if printed) intended for medical professionals about potential treatments and outcomes. It was complex, but I found it readable if I just skimmed the statistics. I found it oddly comforting rather than stress-inducing. It made me feel like the science is solid, and no matter what happens, I’ll be fine. That is, unless I get brushed off with another “within normal limits” dismissal, as I have for years. Please, anything but that.
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