The PMH booking office called, late yesterday. They left one of those drive-by voice messages where they tell you who it is, their phone number, that they want to do an ultrasound... and that they'll be leaving the office right away, so you'll have to call back tomorrow. Which is code for, 'have a restful sleep'.
This morning, I called back. The radiologist reviewing my MRI results has scheduled me for an ultrasound "with possible biopsy" for December 16. There's nothing 'possible' about the biopsy; it'll be a sure thing. Oh, and it's the left breast we're looking at, this time. The whole breast. The 'good' breast.
This ain't my first rodeo. I think there's a fresh DCIS site, and I'll be scheduled for surgery in January. Sure, it's possible I'm wrong, but unlikely. If I am right, it'll be a double mastectomy, this time. But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.
So, another postponement of my date with The Dutchman (how will he stand it?): December 19 will tell the tale. I'll try to think of other things in the meantime.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
3T or Not 3T
Not only is the coil back from TGH, it's in a brand spanky new MRI machine. It's got lights the length of the tube inside and, like my first experience at Mount Sinai, requires me to lie with my arms extended above my head, arc of a diver-style.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. My escort du jour was the Jockette. We got the chance to catch up in the waiting room. I'm sure the other patient found us annoying as hell. It's impossible to spend time with the Jockette without laughing uproariously, at some point. There was the usual joviality, but we lost it completely while I was completing the paperwork. There's an interminable list of conditions with yes/no check boxes beside each, and a comments column to the right. The patient must indicate whether the condition is one they have/have had, in each case.
Mostly, I get to check 'no' as I go down the list. No stents, no allergies to medication, no dentures, and so on. When I reached the "cancer" line -- still chatting merrily away with the Jockette -- I checked the box indicating yes, and in the comments column wrote, "breakfast cancer"! Needless to say, it's a pen in my hand, not a pencil, so I was forced to cross out 'breakfast' and replace it with 'breast'. Hilarious and mortifying, all at the same time. Fits of giggling ensued.
Once admitted to the inner sanctum, in went the IV, down went the Ativan (experience doesn't diminish my mild claustrophobia), on went the headphones and, laid out on the deck like Superman in flight, I slid into the machine. Half an hour later, all those steps were reversed, and I rejoined Jockette in the real world.
Now I've just the date with the Dutchman on Thursday, and I'm good for another year.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. My escort du jour was the Jockette. We got the chance to catch up in the waiting room. I'm sure the other patient found us annoying as hell. It's impossible to spend time with the Jockette without laughing uproariously, at some point. There was the usual joviality, but we lost it completely while I was completing the paperwork. There's an interminable list of conditions with yes/no check boxes beside each, and a comments column to the right. The patient must indicate whether the condition is one they have/have had, in each case.
Mostly, I get to check 'no' as I go down the list. No stents, no allergies to medication, no dentures, and so on. When I reached the "cancer" line -- still chatting merrily away with the Jockette -- I checked the box indicating yes, and in the comments column wrote, "breakfast cancer"! Needless to say, it's a pen in my hand, not a pencil, so I was forced to cross out 'breakfast' and replace it with 'breast'. Hilarious and mortifying, all at the same time. Fits of giggling ensued.
Once admitted to the inner sanctum, in went the IV, down went the Ativan (experience doesn't diminish my mild claustrophobia), on went the headphones and, laid out on the deck like Superman in flight, I slid into the machine. Half an hour later, all those steps were reversed, and I rejoined Jockette in the real world.
Now I've just the date with the Dutchman on Thursday, and I'm good for another year.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
The New, Improved Squish-o-matic
No MRI? No problem. There's still the annual mammogram to endure.
And, on this visit, there's fresh equipment. My photos will be in 3D, this year. Now the machine's head carves an arc through the air above me, and the image it records is a big improvement over the x-ray-like view of the old technology. Unfortunately, the booby sandwich piece of the process hasn't changed a lick. But, there are only four images (two a side), and it doesn't take long 'til I'm on my way back to the change room. In 48 hours, The Dutchman will have the results, visible on the screen in his office. Amazing.
And, on this visit, there's fresh equipment. My photos will be in 3D, this year. Now the machine's head carves an arc through the air above me, and the image it records is a big improvement over the x-ray-like view of the old technology. Unfortunately, the booby sandwich piece of the process hasn't changed a lick. But, there are only four images (two a side), and it doesn't take long 'til I'm on my way back to the change room. In 48 hours, The Dutchman will have the results, visible on the screen in his office. Amazing.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
One Size Does NOT Fit All
It's fall again: booby season. I was scheduled for an MRI tonight, a mammogram tomorrow and a date with the Dutchman (sigh) next week. Truly, the titty trifecta. But, it was not to be.
The BFF and I arrived on time, I blazed through the paperwork, kitted myself out in this season's most glamourous hospital gowns (one backwards, one forwards), and followed my technician escort into the inner sanctum. Usually, that means it's time for installation of an IV, and a memory test about the forms I've just completed, before being loaded into the tube.
Tonight, it was different. Once inside, my technician retreated for a tete-a-tete with his colleague, and returned with the news that the coil for the larger of their two MRI machines was on loan to Toronto General, across the street. The smaller machine's bore apparently isn't large enough to accommodate the full extent of my voluptuousness, so I was rescheduled and sent packing. No claustrophobia, no Ativan, no nothing. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing.
Round two in a couple of weeks. Watch this space.
The BFF and I arrived on time, I blazed through the paperwork, kitted myself out in this season's most glamourous hospital gowns (one backwards, one forwards), and followed my technician escort into the inner sanctum. Usually, that means it's time for installation of an IV, and a memory test about the forms I've just completed, before being loaded into the tube.
Tonight, it was different. Once inside, my technician retreated for a tete-a-tete with his colleague, and returned with the news that the coil for the larger of their two MRI machines was on loan to Toronto General, across the street. The smaller machine's bore apparently isn't large enough to accommodate the full extent of my voluptuousness, so I was rescheduled and sent packing. No claustrophobia, no Ativan, no nothing. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing.
Round two in a couple of weeks. Watch this space.
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