Silence is Golden

It's 5PM on Friday, and I haven't heard boo from The Dutchman.  Guess that means I'm good to go.  One and three-quarter healthy tatas and no one to visit 'til April.  Great way to end a week.

Half the News That's Fit to Print

OMG.  Still so hot.  Will I ever get tired of seeing him?

I was flying solo for my fall date with The Dutchman, this morning.  He never stands me up, but he always keeps me waiting;  today was no exception.

Given our last conversation, six months ago, I wasn't sure what I'd hear, this trip.  We had mammogram and MRI results to discuss, and the prospect of another biopsy hung in the balance.

The mammogram was clear:  great news.  The MRI report wasn't yet back:  shit, bugger, damn.  That's the one that counts, this time.  If the questionable cells from April haven't resolved, I'll face the needle -- and perhaps another journey down surgery highway.  There's nothing for it now but to wait.  And at that, it's the negative option;  The Dutchman won't call, if the results show negative.

I'm taking the view that no news is good news, but it can be hard to figure out when to stop waiting for the phone to ring.  I'll give it 'til the end of next week.  If he hasn't called by Friday, I'll assume I'm the only one thinking about my breasts.  Now, will that be good news, or bad?

Much-Repeated-Imaging

I'd love to say that MRIs are old hat, by now.  True, I know what to expect (no metal, IV for the dye injection, 25 minutes of weird noises inside the big tube), but the calming effect of having information doesn't trump the anxiety of even mild claustrophia.  Atavan -- in the 2mg size -- is still my friend.

Jockette squired me to tonight's appointment.  All cancer-related procedures seem to involve significant time in a waiting room, so we got caught up on industry gossip, office drama, and personal tall tales, 'til the technician spirited me away.

It's hard to believe that lying face down on a padded cage, a needle in my arm, headphones on, naked from the waist up, has become routine, but I guess you can get used to anything, if you do it regularly.  The one thing that never becomes easy -- and that Atavan can't help me with -- is waiting for results.  Let's hope they hit the Dutchman's desk before our date, next week.

Brush With Fame: The Mammogram Edition

Mammograms have become routine for me.  Paperwork first, strip to the waist, titwich, results in two weeks.  This time, it was the prelude that proved unexpected.

I'd already handled steps one and two, and was sitting in the patients' waiting room obsessively checking my BlackBerry.  Another woman entered -- diminutive, Asian, and fully clothed, unlike the three of us in our gowned glory -- and sat.  There's usually a volunteer hovering with pens and clipboards and a kind smile, but she was AWOL just at that moment.  So, when the newest of our number asked in a distinctive voice whether anyone had a pen she could borrow, I answered the formerly vice-regal call.
Most Canadians have to do something heroic or grand or world-changing to exchange pleasantries with dignitaries.  But here I was lending a pen and a magazine to our 26th GG, and all because I kept a medical appointment.  Not much heroic in that, but it'll make a great story for weeks to come.

The Invisible Oncologist

Though my medical oncology appointments are always made with The Pill, I haven't actually seen him in more than a year.  It doesn't really matter to me;  my appointments with him are always over in less than five minutes, anyway.

A fresh doc saw me, today.  In this case, fresh means new to me, not newly minted.  In different circumstances, a man I've just met fondling my naked breasts would definitely be considered fresh, but the unflattering lighting and perpetually wrong-sized hospital gown puts paid to that.  But, I digress.

After a refresher on my history with Tamoxifen -- it's been nearly 18 months, already -- and its side effects -- none of which I seem to be experiencing, thankfully -- it was time for the titty touching.  I wonder if anyone will ever handle my breasts in anything other than a clinical manner again.  Less than a minute and I was alone and dressing.

Long story short, all's well on the pharmaceutical front.  Next stop, flapjack city.

And a 7.0 From the Dutch Judge

More than an hour of waiting (code for compulsively checking the BlackBerry) earned me about five minutes with The Dutchman, this morning.

The MRI revealed no concerns at all on the left side, which is a relief.  On the right, however, there's still a question about whether we got everything we went in for.  Apparently, it can take as long as 18 months for the tissue at the surgery site to settle down.  Given that I'm just a year out from my last surgery, I've still got six months to go.

So, now I've got an appointment for an MRI and a mammogram set for early October, with a Dutchman chaser mid-month.  If the pictures don't change, I'll be up for another biopsy shortly thereafter.

I'll cross that bridge should I come to it.  In the meantime, I've still got one-and-three-quarters headlights.

The Mammarazzi

At the six month check-up mark, I should be having a follow-up mammogram.  But, because The Dutchman is watching something on my left side, we're getting out the high res gear right from the start.

I'm getting way better at these MRI thingies.  Jockette was my date for a late evening appointment in the digital imaging lab.  With the schedule running behind, we had lots of time to play Angry Birds, laugh at the ignominious hospital fashions (ain't nothin' sexier than two hospital gowns, knee socks and street shoes -- no matter the gender!), and catch me up on office gossip, since I'm on vacay, this week.

Of course, that also meant that the 2mg of Ativan I took on time was past its sell-by date when they finally called me into the cavern of despair.  So, I popped the additional milligram I saved from last time(!) and trotted happily off to spend a half-hour face down stuffed half-naked inside a toilet roll.

I'd forgotten how loud the machinery is.  I'd forgotten what it feels like to lie completely still for 30 minutes.  I'd forgotten how great it feels to get it right the first time.

But, I haven't forgotten The Dutchman's hotness index.  Ten days 'til I get my next fix... oh, and the results of the MRI.

TTC - Part Two

I'm two for two with one remaining.  The Burn told me, today, that I passed with flying colours.  So much so that she doesn't need to see me again.  I know she'll keep tabs on me through The Pill and The Dutchman, but that's one less appointment on my book for the next round of check-ups in six months.

Now I psych up for 2mg of Ativan and an MRI.

The Titty Committee

It's been seven months since treatment ended, so it's time to visit The Pill, The Burn, and The Dutchman for my first round of check-ups.

So far, I'm one for three:  after only five minutes, The Pill gave me two thumbs up and a 'scrip for another six months' worth of Tamoxifen.  Take the dice and roll again.

Next up:  The Burn.  Watch this space.