I had hopes that I would hear from Blunt Oncologist that all my upper innards looked great, and I could now start on a yearly scan schedule.
I have a 3 mm nodule on my other lung. For us Americans who refuse to conform to the rest of the worlds form of measurement, that would be 1/64th of an inch. Yes, I had to look it up. There is some other suspicious activity in my liver and spleen, which I haven’t Googled yet, but it was enough to make Blunt Oncologist send me for another scan in 3 months.
***haha! I had originally said 3 ml, not 3 mm–silly American. 🙂
But that’s okay. I am having a pity party for one today, and then I’m going to LIVE. At this point, the findings are things which need further examination, that’s all.
I have said before, that I wanted to get a hair cut. Ms. Procrastinator Pants has not made an appointment because I haven’t found a style yet. ANYWAY, while walking into the cancer center, I felt a bit guilty. As I opened the door, long hair frazzled around my face, I felt a bit guilty being surrounded by chemo heads. I’m sure they long for their hair to return, and I felt I was kind of rubbing it in their faces.
The first thing Blunt Oncologist commented on was how long my hair had gotten. She asked if I was growing it for Locks of Love. She said they like to receive “virgin” hair, and at least 9 inches. I asked her exactly what virgin hair was, and she said—hair that was not color treated. I told her I had a lot of grey, and asked who would want that? She said it didn’t matter.
You know what? I never considered donating my old lady hair, but maybe there is another old lady who lost her hair to chemotherapy, and would like to purchase a human hair wig. So…I’m going to keep growing my hair until I have enough so that they can pitch the damaged stuff at the ends.
Other than the fact that Ms. Rude Receptionist asked me why I was giving my insurance cards–and then asked, wait, do you have new insurance? Duh! I told them last time–which was a couple of weeks ago–that I had new insurance. Actually, for every Torturer’s office I visit, they ALWAYS ask if my insurance has changed.
She gave me a lecture, and went about changing their records. She told me I had to TELL them that I had an insurance change. I told her I did that a couple of weeks ago. I guess it made her feel good to belittle me, than to recognize the person I checked in with last time, didn’t take a copy of my card and update their system.
So there you have it. My cancer story. The icky thoughts that I’m pushing to the vast empty space my brain isn’t using at the moment. They will stay there until I have something to deal with. I will not let it control my life.