Resolution and Move On

Twitter Thursday:  Gotta love doctors when they make money off of referrals.  Instead of sending me to the correct doctor to start with, I wait until Monday.

Amen.

I was speechless over the weekend as the bump turned into a “wait until we can get you into a Surgeon specializing in breast malignancy’s.  I put my faith in God.  I really did.  I also read the heck out of any online website discussing lumps in breasts and the chances that I’m going to be one of those people requesting donations from my network on Facebook.  Really, is it just me, or does fund raising in our social network seem to be getting out of hand?  I’ve got 217 friends at last count, since I last unfriended Daddy Dumb and at any one time, 21 of them are shaving their heads, armpits, or walking their neighborhood for money….and giving me a link to contribute.

I digress.

Dr. Marvel couldn’t do anything about the lump in my boob at this office, because as an OB/GYN he really just concerns himself with the plumbing below, so he was not able to calm my nerves and tell me what the lump was…sent me to a surgeon who was out playing golf until Monday.  So, I just drank my liver toxic with Firefly, spent the day in bed Sunday recovering from my over-consumption, and Monday took a shower and felt confused about the latest Bill passing in Congress.  I wasn’t going to worry about me.  I was going to be just fine.  I knew it.  This isn’t how I’m going out, I’ve seen Terms of Endearment and it’s too sweet.

So, I arrive at the surgeon’s office with a splitting knot on the back of my head (I passed out during one of my afternoon heaves and found myself in my panties covered in vomit on the bathroom floor on Sunday – remember, I don’t do vomit, especially my own.) and sat there and read about the cocaine industry of the 1990s in one of his outdated magazines covered with germs.  As far as a surgeon’s office decor goes, it was pathetic.  The only thing I noted was that instead of leather visitor chairs, he had several benches lining the walls – ahh hah…for the lap band types that are too wide to fit in the chair.  I sat there, quietly, and listened to the old patients bicker amongst themselves about the Medicare impact of the bill and how their prescription drug coverage isn’t going to be great any longer.  I think to myself, you Medicare kids are freaking crazy.  I don’t have any prescription drug coverage, I’m paying social security for you, my health insurance is only going to increase after this freaking visit gives me a pre-existing condition that Obamacare is going to make it illegal not to cover, and this plan is going to bankrupt Medicare so there won’t be any benefits left for me.  Plus, I freaking need a Xanax and I can’t find a soul to prescribe it to me.  What about a bill to make Xanax available over the counter?

Maybe I should go to medical school.

An hour after I arrive, Dr. Cutme arrives from his three martini lunch and I see him check me out as I am lead into an outdated exam room with a machine that looks like it will be the same image quality as those that show the astronauts on the Moon.  He’s shorter than me, so my hopes of McSteamy are quashed.  He begins to talk, but I start to black out again, my nerves are getting the best of me, and I remember that I forgot to eat, that I didn’t have anything in my stomach, and I was really parched.  As he speaks, I remember why I never married a doctor.  Yawn.  My head hurts still.  I must be dehydrated.

So, he starts drawing pictures of my boob that look too graphic for me, and then eventually says, “okay, let’s get a look.  I remember that I really did like Spencer, but he didn’t talk.  His roommate that was in medical school with him had a super crush on him and it got in the way, plus there was his best friend Fred that was aggressively pursuing me.  Then there was Roland, but he was a little stalkerish for me, especially since he was on to me about the fact that I was seeing someone else, which was John, but I was covering it up with my accomplice in all things fun, Drew.  Roland caught me with Drew, but I swear, it was totally innocent!  Drew was asleep on the red couch, but there was no way I was letting Roland in the door.  Pull my head out of my foggy memory, I’ve got three beautiful children and a husband that adores me.  I made the right decision not marrying a doctor, but at this point I have no freaking clue what Dr. Cutme just said.

The machine shows a bunch of black spots – turns out the black spots are just cysts, filled with fluid…I’ve got lots of them.  Next thing I know, he’s pulling out a needle, sticking it in my boob and then “POP”.  The black spot disappears.  It looked like he was performing in-vitro fertilization of my boob.  Since he was already in there, he said he’d go ahead an prick a few more so they wouldn’t become troublesome next year.  Now, these I can feel, but my head is throbbing, and I am looking away from him and concentrating on the alien space machine that now has a needle prodding its way through my left boob.

I’m going to live.  I’ve got fibrocystic disease.  Thank God.  I don’t think I’m a quality candidate for a breast job.  With regular needles in my boob, I’m not really sure that I want to pop anything that I’ve paid for.  I’m going to focus on the tummy tuck gut suck.

John had his appointment today as well for his Thyroid.  We’re going to go ahead and do the radioactive iodine to kill the Thyroid tissue, so he’ll be quarantined next Thursday/Friday in the basement.  The kids and I will have a pizza/movie night.  John will be out of quarantine in time for our Spring Break to start.  We have no idea what we are doing, where we are going, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out.  I’m happy to just sleep in at home and play with the kids, see movies, and go to a museum.

My mother in law comes this weekend, and then my favorite family member of all time comes on Monday to see ME.

This reminds me, I need to clean off the back porch.  Spring has sprung and it’s about time to relocate to my favorite spot and plot the destruction and disappearance of Mohammad’s weeds.  If I won the lottery, I’d just buy his house and move there…pool, tennis court.

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