"This place looks like a butcher shop," and other things you don't want to hear your doctor say

When we last left our damsel in distress (that would be me), the doctor was prancing around singing arias about breast centers and proclaiming me "probably" cancer-free. If I had been smart, I would have left with that upbeat proclamation and not looked back.

Unfortunately, I left with a business card for a breast surgeon who seemed way too eager to fit me in the next day. The day before Thanksgiving, of all days. My school work was done, and it being the holiday season and having only three kids in activities, what else would I do with all my free time?

Walking into this office I realized that every doctor and specialist has its own feel. My primary doctor? a waiting room full of sniffles and sneezes and haggard looking people my age. My ob/gyn? a waiting room full of young 20s women with toddlers and car seats in tow. Also haggard looking. My podiatrist? a crammed room of 80+ year olds with walkers and wheelchairs.

The breast center... Well, it wasn't as though I had time to stop and think about what it might look like, but it didn't take a step in the door to realize it also has its own feel. Pink, for one. Everything is pink. The file folders, the baskets, the pens, the ads for pink plaid Scottish kilts and matching fleece for the Walk for a Cure team they are sponsoring.

Also, very plush. And quiet. Hot tea and coffee. Comfy chairs, not that they keep you waiting long enough to sink into them.

And honest to goodness, every single woman who works there has training-bra-sized boobs. It's as though when they hired they said, "We don't want to flaunt anything in the face of people facing mastectomies, so A-cup size only need apply."

If you need to spend time in a doctor office, this isn't the worst place to be.

And also, in the two minutes I was waiting, a woman bounded out of one of the rooms to the person in the chair next to me (obviously waiting for her friend) and said, "It's benign!" And the glow on her face was enough to make a hardened criminal cry.

This is no flu and cold and stumped toe clinic here. It seems the only people here are either on cloud nine that they are fine, or facing the climb of their lives.

I'm the rarity, I think. The one who falls in neither category, who still has no idea what's going on. It's not so much the "probably" that pokes at me, but the uncertainty of diagnosis.

Not for lack of trying, of course. That first visit I had a sonogram that lasted the good part of an hour. The sonograms I'm used to are the ones where you see all this grey fuzz and then suddenly there is a baby there, like some mutated alien, sucking his thumb or stretching her legs and waving. There is a whoosh-whoosh sound of a heartbeat. There is amazing.

This one.. not so much. For one, aside from a baby, I have no idea what I'm looking at on a sonogram. And since there's no baby in my chest, mostly what I saw was grey fuzz. And then these monstrous looking black holes. Which, I can tell you, look ominous even if you have no idea what they are.

I have two doctors at this office - one the sonogram kind of doctor, and the other a surgeon.  The first visit was the sonogram doctor, who told me my original symptoms (the whole reason I went to the doctor in the first place) now took a back seat to these black holes.

"Are those bad?" I asked.

"Well, they aren't good," she said. Cue first thing you don't want to hear a doctor say.

She kept going back to one in particular, and finally said, "I think we need to get an MRI. It's not overly concerning, but we need to make sure."

"Overly." "Probably." Why must doctors speak in such wishy-washy language?

"Is this causing my other symptoms?" I asked.

"Probably not. But let's figure this out first, then we can look at the other."  Which is, I take it, code for, "We found something worse."

Seriously, people, can nothing be simple??

So I left this office a lot less trippy than the one where the doctor pronounced me probably cancer-free. I'm going to say it's just this office, that what they deal with on a daily basis is pretty serious, and a lot less fun than bringing babies into the world, and also, she can't pawn me off on someone else because I am now her job. But when you go to a specialist and they still have no good idea what's going on, and then they find something new, well, let's just say I didn't do a dance on the way to the car.

I could write a lot about the MRI. It was my first experience with one, and I discovered that I'm not nearly as calm and logical as I appear. Part of that may have had to do with the fact that, as I'm sitting in the "holding" area waiting for the techs to clean up from the last patient, I hear one guy say, "Wow. This place looks like a butcher shop."

????????????!!!!!!!!

Is there a lot of blood? Because that's what I think when I hear the words "butcher shop." And why is the lady before me bleeding all over the place? Does this magnetic thing make you explode if you forget you're wearing a toe ring or have silver fillings you can't take out? Are they slaughtering people in there? I considered maybe it was an array of knives, but you can't have any metal in the room with the MRI machine, so it couldn't be that.

My blood pressure was probably on the tad high side when they finally brought me in, but the room looked... clean. Sterile. White. So crime scene cleaners, I've got some referrals for you.

I never considered myself claustrophobic. Looking at the machine, I thought, "How can someone feel claustrophobic in this? It's not that big, it's got big wide open circles on both ends. There's a hole where your head goes so you can look down."

That was before they slid me in. And I panicked.

They really should just give people a valium when they sign in rather than expecting people to predict this kind of panic attack. And the little panic button they gave me didn't help, because there was no way I was going to admit I was hyperventilating and have them pull me out.

I managed. Lots of deep breathing. I did discover that all of the breathing techniques and ideas to help you through child birth pain are no match for claustrophobia.

Back to the breast center. Sonogram doctor comes in and says, "There's no sign of anything malignant."

So... yay? But she is STILL not looking happy.

"We're going to do another sonogram, and then you can get dressed and the surgeon will come in and discuss your options."

So getting dressed - good thing. Options with a surgeon? Maybe not so good, because if they don't see cancer, I have no intention of going under a knife.

Sonogram starts, and cue second thing you don't want to hear a doctor say: "This looks much bigger than last time you were here."

Um... last time I was here was like six days ago.

Finish the sonogram and she says the next thing you don't want to hear a doctor say. "Don't get dressed after all. We'll have the surgeon do another sonogram just to make sure."

So I wait, in my pink paper drape, for the surgeon to come in. I'm not going to give his name but I had visions of him as an elderly, white-haired short guy.

He looks like he stepped off the set of Grey's Anatomy.

Cue the clutching of the paper shirt and the rush of stupid words. "Are you old enough to be a surgeon?"  And also, you are way too cute to be my doctor. But thankfully I didn't say that out loud.

I'd like to say, "And then he looked and declared this entire process a misunderstanding and sent me home."

But he didn't.

He also seemed... concerned. But not in a "rush thee to a hospital" kind of way. I think his exact words were, "If this was something random that came and went, I'd say let's just watch and see. But I think in this case we really need to be proactive. Let's get to the bottom of this."

And yet, I STILL KNOW NOTHING!!!  It is still probably not cancer. Although the surgeon said its possible it's in such early stages the MRI couldn't pick it up.  Which, if true, is good news. Not as good as not cancer at all, but still - catching it this early would make getting rid of it much easier.

But I don't think it's cancer. I really don't. Not in the very least. I think it will all end up being nothing at all, and I will have wasted hours and hours and much money on tests and doctors to find out, "Hey - looks like all is good. You just have abnormal boobs."

Which, really, would not surprise me at all.

I can't tell you how many bookcases I could have bought with the money I've spent on co-pays in the last month. This is what kills me.

Tomorrow I go back and get biopsies on some of those black holes. That means there will probably be another blog post. Hey - I'm not likely to ever write a memoir, so this is as close as I get. And if you've read this far, thank you. And I'm sorry.

In Which I Find Out I (probably) Don't Have Cancer

I know, I just gave away the ending. I (probably) don't have cancer. As a writer, I realize this is bad form. Why read on now? I've sucked all the tension right out of this post. But I care for you, dear readers. I know many of you would worry if I strung you along, so I'm putting the ending first to ease your mind. And now you can just enjoy the journey.

Also, I apologize in advance for any TMI. Usually I am so private about this stuff, but I found it impossible to write what's happening without actually writing about what's happening. 

***********************

Without going into too much detail, let it suffice to say two weeks ago something happened that sent me googling odd symptoms. It will surprise no one who's ever googled anything medical to hear that I found out I was clearly going to die. And not just on WebMD, that bastion of "everything boils down to cancer."  Every site I went on said, "Get thee to a doctor!! Fast!!"

I am not one to jump on doctor appointments. Not because I hate them, but mostly, it's just so inconvenient. I don't have time. And I feel fine. I mean, to go to a doctor means I am in serious pain and the Motrin just isn't cutting it. And right now, I feel just fine. Normal, for whatever that's worth.

But there was enough on the internet to convince me to call my doctor office and talk to a nurse. Based on past history, this is what I expected to hear: "Huh. Yeah. I don't know. You should come in. Our soonest appointment is in a month." I even checked their online appointment schedule and found out the soonest appointment available was in a month.

But I called, because the internet told me too. The conversation went like this:

ME: Hi. I'm having these weird symptoms and I thought I should check to see if I need to come in. I have an appointment in three weeks anyway, so maybe I could just talk to the doctor then. But I thought I should ask. Because the internet says I should.

HER: Can you describe what's going on?

ME:... (describing in as few words as possible, in a very light, nonchalant tone...)

HER: You need to come in. Now. Can you get here today?

So apparently she also reads WebMD.

When I got to the office, I was shuffled back immediately, without the usual wait in the waiting room while watching all the harried moms with their teething toddlers. When the nurse came in to take my blood pressure, she asked, "Are you nervous?"

Um... no. Should I be?

She asked this FOUR times!! Which I thought was odd. Because I really wasn't nervous at all. I honestly felt totally fine, and a bit silly for having driven 20 miles to see a doctor I knew would tell me I need to stop reading WebMD.

Lesson One: Don't rely on one article of clothing to make you feel good. She told me to get into a papery shirt, and I knew I'd approached my fashion completely wrong. See, I tend to wear jeans and sneakers. A lot. Most of the time. But I dress it up with pretty tops and fancy sweaters and scarves. I'd worn the CUTEST sweater that day, and a totally adorable scarf I'd just figured out how to tie in a new way. But suddenly I found myself in just jeans and sneakers... and a paper top. Boo. I should have opted for the skirt and kicky boots.

Lesson Two: Reconsider reading options. So now I'm sitting in the room waiting, papery top rustling with every move, and trying to read a book. I'd brought a funny book. One I couldn't read without laughing so hard I was crying; one which occasionally I've laughed so hard I snorted. I figured it would be the perfect thing to get my mind off sitting half-naked. Except, as it turns out, when you are waiting for bad news, funny things are not so funny. I feel like I wasted some perfectly great chapters in that room. I apologize to the author.

Lesson Three: It is not good news when your doctor walks in, shakes your hand, and the first words out of her mouth are, "So who in your family has breast cancer?"  Not, "Hi." Not, "How are you feeling today?" Not, "Do you have a history of cancer?" No. She asks, "Who in your family has breast cancer?"

Hello to you, too.

Lesson Four: (Here comes the TMI... if you're a man, you might want to avert your eyes...)  Mammograms mean nothing when you have dense breast tissue. Nothing. Do you know that they hide cancer 60% of the time? I'd JUST had one... my first one.. that's a whole other TMI post... and the radiologist said I was fine. In fact, she showed me my films and said, "See all that white? That's dense tissue. I'm just telling you because your report will come back saying you have dense tissue and I didn't want you to worry. It doesn't mean anything. It's very normal."

What she should have said was, "See all that white? It means we have NO IDEA what is in there."

So there is you PSA for the week. If you have dense tissue, don't assume everything is fine.

Lesson Five: Surprising your doctor can actually be a good thing. She discovered that what was happening to one breast was also actually happening to the other. I just didn't know it. (I'm being purposely vague here... there is only so much one wants to expose in a blog. The fact that I wrote the word breast earlier is already a milestone for me in the personal exposure bag.)

So at the end of this, she says, "The fact that this is bilateral is good, I think. It means you probably don't have cancer." And her relief was palpable.

And it wasn't until this point that I realized everyone in that office - the receptionist, the nurse, the doctor - all thought I was going to leave with a breast cancer diagnosis. Which, frankly, is pretty sobering. And also, at the same time, like some crazy acid trip because I find out in the same sentence that I not only probably DID have cancer but that now I probably DON'T.

Which I hope forgives the moment later in the day when, walking through a grocery store and some stock boy asks how I'm doing, I blurted out loudly and with great enthusiasm, "Great! I probably don't have cancer!"

But with this good news came other confounding news.... my doctor had absolutely no idea what the problem was. And so, she says, I need to go to the breast specialist.

ME: There's a breast specialist?

HER: Yes. That's all they do.

ME: Isn't that what you do?

HER: No. We pretty much just stick to vaginas here.

Yes. And this is why I love my doctor.

And also because, when she described how big and beautiful the Breast Center was, she spread her hands out wide and sang, "AHHHHHHH" like a choir of angels.

So now I have a breast specialist. And we have no idea what's wrong. But I feel fine. And I (probably) don't have cancer. And that last part is all I'm clinging to now.


I do want to say I'm not worried. So you shouldn't be either. I've seen my new doctor, and I'll save that for the next post. She seems concerned, but I think that's her job. Really, all she does is diagnose people with breast cancer, and that can't be a fun job. She's also confounded, but says nothing looks "overly suspicious," but I've had lots of tests and an MRI scheduled for next week, and I suspect it will turn out to be much ado about nothing.

I'm mostly thankful all this happened after I turned in my thesis, because really, I couldn't juggle all of that at the same time. So if there was a good time to see a doctor a day, this is it.

Okay. I think that's all the personal I can handle today. This is what I want you to know: I'm not worried. You shouldn't be either. And if you have dense breast tissue, ask about an MRI or sonogram.

My work here is done.

Thesis... Done.

This, my friends, is the rather unpretentious, unimpressive first page of the culmination of two years' work. I am unabashedly thrilled.

Yes, the thesis is done. Yes, I can stop using words like "thesis" and "grad school" and get back to normal conversational words. If I can remember them.

Can you believe it's been two years? Me either. On the other hand, I can't remember what it was like not to be in school. Which is what my kids think when I say, "That two years went fast," and they reply, "Was it just two years??"

The last five months writing this thesis have been crazy. Head in laptop, eyes blurred, four-hour-a-night sleep kind of crazy. Non-stop writing and revising and crying and despairing and tiny leaps of hope followed by roller-coaster freefalls of doubt kind of crazy. But here it is... five short stories I've become mightily attached to.

I don't know what will happen from here. We're into the holiday season, so I suspect there will have to be some non-laptop time that involves cleaning and shopping and decorating, but I don't know how to function without a laptop calling me constantly. I keep wandering back to it, opening it, staring as though something important will leap out at me.

I have two novels rolling around in my head that I suspect I'll get knee-deep into before I return to Oregon in January. One is an old one I think I finally have a good direction for, and another is a new one that's more a seed still growing roots in my brain.

I feel both huge relief... and a little lost. Glad to say goodbye to stress of school, but depressed at saying goodbye to the promise of residencies, friends, letters from advisors, and that learning high that makes my brain feel like it's exploding.

Now to figure out what life will be from here on out...

Frankenstorm... less fun than the name implies.

This Monday showed up just as they said it would... rainy, windy, cold. Frankenstorm is moving into Virginia, and even though we're on the southern edge of the worst of it, we're hunkering down for the next few days.

The kids are home, and even the federal government shut down, so the husband is home. Last night was fun - movies and finishing off the ice cream in the freezer and enjoying a late night knowing we could sleep in today.

We're scrambling this morning, though, to do last-minute things in case the power goes out. Showers and coffee and laptops charging. Tubs are filled with water, a few meals ready to throw on the grill, coolers with ice and fridges cleaned out. My stories are printed out in case I have to revise old-school, and my fingers are crossed that I don't have to.

We are either way over-prepared or smart. I tend to downplay events like this, cynical of the weather reporters who clearly love the hype a good storm brings (and the revenue). But I feel better if I'm a little in control, and if nothing comes of this but some wet weather, at least I have dinners for the next three days already done!

This would be great time to curl up with a book!! Unfortunately, I'm still having to curl up with revisions. Boo.

I imagine with the large size of this storm, quite a few of you are under it as well. Thinking and praying for all you in more direct path of this storm. Check in and let us know how you're doing if you can!

In Transition

I wrote a blog post earlier today and decided to delete it. It was long. And boring. It was about revising and rewriting and the thesis. Did I mention it was long? And boring?

I've been re-thinking my blog - about what I want it to be. Heidi the Hick posted her 7th anniversary blog post last week and it got me thinking about all the years that have passed here at this blog.

When I started, it was a way for me to connect with other writers, to not be alone in this journey that can be so isolating. It was a great place for us - all of us - to share what we struggle with, what we learn, when we meet success.

There was always a splash of me, too. Adventures in family vacations and experiences with diabetes and the occasional what to do when the pellet stove guy takes all day. But mostly, it's been writing.

I thought when I started grad school I'd be here all the time sharing what I was learning, but it didn't work out that way. Part was time, of course. I ran out of it. But there was a greater part where it felt strange writing about that - as though I were saying "This is the way to write well!" when really, I'm still just stumbling along like everyone else.

Now that I'm winding up school, I feel like a new phase is starting - of my writing, of my career such that it is, of my life. I'm not sure what I want this blog to reflect, but I don't think I want to be a blog for writers specifically. I really want it to be for people. Anyone.

So there may be changes here. Same me. But new format. Maybe a new look. I don't want to give up blogging, but I feel the need to shake it up a little. I hope you that read will still stick with me. :)

I'm Not Impressed... Yet

Two years... read eighty books and write one. That's the tag line of an MFA program, and here I am, on my last book. And... like McKayla, I'm not impressed.

When I first started the program, I had to come up with a reading list, and so I asked all of you. What great books are out there I must absolutely know about and read?

I asked my crit group, and the first book one person suggested was A Prayer for Owen Meany. I looked it up on Amazon and saw that the book ran 642 pages and wrote her back, "Are you trying to kill me??"

But I've had many people since then tell me to read it, rave about it, tell me it's their favorite book ever. And since I've read books like Cutting for Stone, Edgar Sawetelle, and the behemoth doorstop A Soldier of the Great War (weighing in at 727 pages), what's one more long book?

So I started it this week as my last book. And I have to say... I'm not feeling it yet.

Okay - I'm not that far into it. About 50 pages, which isn't that far in a book this size. But something my advisor and this program have tried to pound into me is starting in the action, keeping a story in the action, moving things along and not letting the story linger too long on things not imperative to the plot. And this book is just meandering right now, and full of details that don't at all seem important.

I take it it's a character driven story, and since Owen just killed Johnny's mom with a foul ball, I'm guessing things are about to amp up. But still... there's just not the language I love to stew in or the plot compelling me forward. I'm hoping it will get better. I'm expecting still to find some gem in it.

I wonder if all the ravings about it raised my expectations too high? I've found the books I come to with huge expectations of greatness nearly always let me down, and those I don't know or expect much of are the ones that blow me away.

I'll keep plodding on. Maybe by the end of today I'll have totally and completely fallen in love with it. Maybe it will be one of my favorites, too. I'm hoping.. because 652 pages is a lot to not like.

If you've read this book and loved it, what is it that impressed you?

And why does Owen Meany talk in all capitals??

Tell me, blogging friends, have you been disappointed in books that others have hyped up to you? Do you prefer to come to a book with high expectations or none at all?

***UPDATE: I finished Owen Meany and... I'm still not all that impressed. I admit the ending did make up for some of the earlier aspects I didn't love, and it was a more tightly-knit story than it appeared to be during the first 400 pages. But this is not a book I'll be thinking of years from now and want to pull out and read again, I don't think.