So yesterday Otto and I went out to run some errands and go to our first appointment with the specialist Monkey will be seeing, because for the first appointment just the parents get to go. We spent a lot of time sitting in the waiting room, and then a lot of time telling the nice doctor our entire medical history (well, mine and Monkey’s, anyway), until somewhere around the “Has your cousin’s step-sister’s uncle’s father ever had bursitis?” question I became sorely tempted to tell him that I had JUST REMEMBERED that actually, Monkey is adopted and we have no medical history on him whatsoever!
I didn’t do that, by the way. Even though I REALLY REALLY wanted to. I’m such a rule follower.
Anyway, while we were out and about, it was approximately 100 degrees and Otto offered to buy me an ice cream. Because he’s swell that way.
(We have a family rule, one that we started back in New England, before we knew we’d be moving south. If the thermometer breaks 100 degrees, we go for ice cream. Up north that wasn’t a hard indulgence to justify, though down here we are all going to end up morbidly obese.)
We were at a strip mall type place, and Otto insisted that there was an ice cream place down at the end. So we walked down there, and—no ice cream. The place he was thinking of has since become a restaurant. Hmph.
BUT! Once we’d done that I saw a store in the neighboring strip mall that I wanted to pop into, and so I very sweetly asked Otto if he would mind if we just skipped over there, briefly, please honey (“You promised me ice cream and I didn’t get any and now you’re going in here with me!”), so off we went. The store we entered had a lot of VERY SMELLY lotions and loud music and so I knew I’d have to make it quick before Otto passed out.
I commenced with the sniffing of various products and making my selections. Otto commenced with the cracking of jokes about what types of people want to smell like pomegranates.
And then my phone rang. I answered, but couldn’t hear very well, so I walked outside—leaving Otto with my shopping bag—to take the call.
It turns out that my ladybits doctor feels that the breast MRI I had last year was, indeed, “not normal” and requires a follow-up MRI. But GUESS WHAT ELSE!
My insurance doesn’t want to pay for it. SHOCKING!
Now, I wouldn’t call that last MRI the MOST unpleasant thing I’ve ever done. I mean, I’ve given birth and ripped ligaments and seen W through two presidencies, so no, not the WORST thing ever… but still, not high on my list of favorite activities. So honestly? When she told me the insurance wouldn’t cover it, I wasn’t too heartbroken.
“Oh well!” I said to my doctor. “I’m fine! It’s okay!”
“Mir, you are NOT FINE,” she said, and then my heart stopped and I died. “I mean,” she rushed on, “You are PROBABLY fine, but we really need to follow this up. It’s important.”
But, you know, the insurance company disagrees. Because they are concerned about my health. AHAHAHAHAHAHA! I am funny.
So it turns out that instead of an MRI, I have to go for YET ANOTHER breast ultrasound, instead. Whereas the MRI machine is loud and uncomfortable and having contrast injected into your body makes you feel like you’ve wet your pants, having an ultrasound is a piece of cake! If you, you know, enjoy eating cake while someone SMASHES A PROBE INTO YOUR NIPPLE REPEATEDLY.
And after the ultrasound, if they see anything they shouldn’t, then maybe I can have that MRI. Or maybe I can have (another) biopsy! Who knows! It’s breast roulette, and the insurance company is calling the numbers!
I finished up my phone call with the doctor and went back into the store, where Otto was asphyxiating from the scent of coconut-ginger-melon-fantasia spritzer. I filled him in, finished making my selections, paid for my stuff, and we left.
And then Otto bought me a milkshake, because he’s swell that way.
My boobs enjoyed it immensely.