So, in the last post, there, someone left a comment that said something along the lines of “GEEZ, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO TELL US WHAT HAPPENED WITH YOUR ULTRASOUND?” And I felt all warm and fuzzy, because I realized that you truly care. Or at least that I’ve reached my goal of being so completely inappropriate and shameless that now when I don’t regularly update you on my boobs, you start to worry.
(My breasteses; let me show you them.)
I actually forgot to write about it because the whole thing was so anti-climactic, and also because I have been busy, you know, with things other than my mammaries. I have been, um, curing world hunger! And educating the downtrodden! And looking at faucets! And buying stuff at Amazon!
(Totally true, you know. I shall begin the hunger cure with homemade pizza night—the only night on which my children clear their plates each and every time—and the rest is highly important and truthful, as well. Especially the part about the faucets. Because Otto bought some gorgeous faucets on clearance yesterday during the plumbing debacle, and when he told me how much they cost I swallowed my tongue. Then I started researching faucets online and swallowed my teeth. I have discovered why poverty is so rampant in our world, and the reason is OVERPRICED BATH FIXTURES.)
So Monday, I went in for my breast ultrasound. By the time it rolled around, I was, in truth, a little nervous. All this fuss gets to a person after a while, you know. So I drove over to the hospital feeling a bit of trepidation, but keeping it together, and mentally composing “to be opened on your 18th birthday” letters to the children to be left for them before my untimely demise.
[“Dear Chickadee, I’m sorry I wasn’t around to see you exact your wrath on the world once hormones came into play. I hope no one was hurt. Just know that I always loved you very much, and no, I don’t know where your socks are.” “Dear Monkey, I hope that now that you’re a young man, you fart less often. Dude, you were the light of my life but MAN, enough is enough. Yours is a tush only a mother could love.”]
This hospital has a wing specifically for “women’s imaging” (I love that… like maybe people can just run in during the day and twirl at the front desk and say “Does this make my butt look big?” and get an honest assessment before running off to that power meeting), so I’ve been to the same desk for my mammogram and MRI, before this.
“Good morning, how are you today?” chirped the happy desk attendant as I handed her my paperwork.
“I’m fine, thanks, though I’m really hoping the third time is the charm and this will be my last visit here for a while!” She gave me a look. I know that look. It’s the “too much information, just say ‘fine’ and move on” look.
Unfortunately, I have many strengths, but brevity isn’t one of them.
I’d barely seated myself in the waiting area when a tech came to get me. She took me back to the ultrasound room and directed me to go change into a gown, and when I came back out she had me lie down on the table and got right to business.
That is to say, she squirted about a quart of goo onto my left boob and commenced grinding it into my ribcage with the ultrasound wand, while I babbled incessantly because that is what I do when I’m nervous and some stranger is trying to forcibly inject my nipple into my lung.
She took a few measurements. I looked at the screen and remarked, “Wow, that’s just what my first baby looked like!” She gave a little uncomfortable chuckle, unsure whether or not I was kidding. (I was.) She took some more pictures, then pulled out a towel and draped it over the gooey breast and informed me she needed to go get the radiologist.
Hey, lucky for me, I got the same doc as the one I talked to after my mammogram. (Knowing this town? I strongly suspect he’s the ONLY radiologist. But whatever.) This doc is nice and cheerful and not bad looking, and as an added bonus he has a cute accent. (I think he’s Australian. Or New Zealand…ish?) He came in and shook my hand (not like THAT was awkward or anything, with me lying on the table with a handtowel draped over my exposed breast) and told me he was going to have a look, but that he thought probably everything was fine.
Then he took over the probe and had his turn at making my breast meet my spleen, and took some measurements and some pictures and declared me perfectly healthy.
“Do you know why your doctor ordered the MRI?” he asked me. (Except, the accent, you know. “D’ya now why yer doktah ooordered th’MRI?”)
“Because… she’s a moron?” I guessed. Whoops. Had I just said that out loud? “Um, I mean, she wanted a better look at those calcifications on the other side.”
He nodded, then gave me a brief lecture on whether or not mammography is useful with younger, denser breast tissue (no) and how MRIs are very good at seeing things but not in specific and wrapped up by saying that the ultrasound revealed nothing more sinister than fibrocystic changes (and lumpy boobs rarely kill).
I was starting to sort of like him (or, at least, to be hypnotized by his accent), but then he said I needed to have a repeat MRI in 6 months.
“What? WHY?” He’d JUST finished telling me how the MRI I’d had was unnecessary and everything was fine.
“Well,” he sighed. “Here’s the thing. We never would’ve known about this stuff if you hadn’t had the MRI. And everything looks fine. But now that we know about it, we should do a repeat just to make sure nothing changes.”
“So, if I’d never had the MRI, there’d be nothing to worry about?” He squirmed a little.
“Yeah, basically. I feel comfortable saying you’re fine, but given that we now have this data, I think we need to do a repeat JUST to confirm that there aren’t any changes.”
Hmph. Accent or no, anyone who looks me in the eye and declares me fit and healthy but needing a repeat ride in the tunnel of dangling dignity and cacophony is no friend of mine. I accepted the appointment card they gave me but, I dunno, six months is a long time… I might lose it. Stranger things have happened.
Besides, upon further reflection, I really think I need to spend all of my available time on finishing up those letters for the kids.