OldDogNewTits











{December 5, 2011}   The pathology report is in

Benign.

We can also send it to MD Anderson Cancer Center for ironclad confirmation but the results are, like, 99% conclusive.

Exhale.

Thanks, all. I’m going to bed.

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Today is a big day, for two reasons.

(1) I took a shower. I mean … hair washing, conditioning, shaving, removing the excessive, NASA-quality adhesive leftover from the bandages, etc. (That last part is not typically part of my daily routine.) And it’s so great not to feel grimy and smelly. (I know you can’t feel smelly. I’m using poetic license here.) And Dave had to dry my hair, a task he gave his all … but confirmed that he has no fancy salon work in his future.

(2) I’m returning to the scene of the crime to have a follow-up x-ray (my fourth inside of two weeks) and check in with the surgeon for my post-op appointment and maybe (just maybe) the preliminary pathology report. There’ll be another one later, via MD Anderson I think, but this one is still pretty damned significant.

So, my family’s pretty much been on pins and needles this week, waiting for this day. My incredible parents are picking up my kids from school and getting them to their various after school activities and starting homework. A good friend is dropping off dinner at my house tonight. And Dave and I are at the hospital. Right now.

Via her blog post, you’ve already heard from my mom and her breaking point in everything. It made me think about asking a few other family members the same question.

“At what point were you the most worried about everything?”

My son didn’t hesitate a moment with his answer. “When we came to see you in the hospital. I did NOT like seeing you look all weak and tired with all those tubes coming out of you.” Since then, he’s been on a one-boy quest to remove my wristbands, the IV bandaids, the Scopolamine patch, the bits of adhesive on my skin, the doctor’s pen markings, etc. He wants things back to normal. Now. And I’m doing everything I can to appease his request.

I asked my husband the question late last night. And, with teary eyes, he answered, “I’m still worried.”

I wasn’t ready for that one.

So now, we sit and wait together to be called back for my x-ray. He’s looking up things on his phone and I’ve got my purple pillow pet tucked under my arm. His idea.

“Who cares what anyone thinks?!!?”

Love you, Dave.




At the moment … from the comforts of my bed … it seems like a great idea to me, but I’m not so sure I should trust my loopy, medicated judgment or (for that matter) that of the purple pillow pet or the cat, both of whom have started dispensing a lot of unsolicited advice in my direction. Lola (the pillow pet) is all ‘Don’t do it. It’s sensationalism. You will disgust your readers and they’ll think it’s inappropriate and insensitive.” Milo, on the other hand, has pressed me to put it up from the moment he first saw it. He keeps coming at me with “You said you were going to share everything. You were going to be totally honest, remember?”

Why am I not at all surprised that Lola and Milo are at odds here?

So, I’m putting it to a vote. It is, after all, what I do.

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