Well, I'm glad that's all over with

Everything is fine!

The last couple of days have been a thrill ride of miscommunication. First I was told that the report came back benign; then I was told actually there were two reports, and one of them wasn't in yet. THEN I was told that the second report was in but the physician on staff hadn't signed off on them yet, so they couldn't be sent over. AND THEN they were like, oh, that second report never existed. The final straw was when my GP told me that the radiologist claimed they never did a needle core biopsy. That was approximately when I lost my damn mind.

I finally got the radiologist on the phone this afternoon (having--finally, after several attempts--gotten around She Who Will Not be Named) and he confirmed that the GP was mistaken, and explained everything in the report. Then I got to tell him all about his receptionist. It was awfully satisfying.

The important part is: all is well, everything they sampled was benign, and my breasts were described on the report as "like two fawns that graze among the lilies." Which is nice and all, and startlingly accurate, but is that like a medical term or something?

A rant, because this is all I can do.

Right before Christmas, I got to have a needle core biopsy on my right breast. A few days before that, I found an impressive lump, which I quickly had checked out by my GP, who hurried me along to get a mammogram and an ultrasound. The radiologist informed me that I had a few cysts (six!) in my right breast as well as a tumor (a large one!) which he preceded with the words "definitely benign," so as to keep me from falling off the table. It worked! "Definitely benign" has a lovely, comforting ring to it. Still, though, he said we'd want to do the biopsy right away, which they did. And after it was all done, and I was lying there icing my poor, drilled boob, the warm, comforting, grandfatherly doctor who performed the biopsy assured me--PROMISED me--that the results would be in two days later, "at the latest."

HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAaaaaa. Hurk.

I'm not going to bury the lede, here: I still don't have the results. And although I have been assured that I am most definitely going to be all fine, I would like to know, please, thank you and goodbye. I would like to not think about this any longer. And yet I am forced to think about this, a lot longer. I am feeling a little crazy. I am ready to march down to the NYU labs and start knocking heads together. Only then they wouldn't be able to give me the results, what with all the brain injuries.

And you know, if they had TOLD me it would take a while, I would have resigned myself. If they hadn't said to me, "This is the last thing you want to worry about over the holidays," I would have expected to worry about it over the holidays. Worrying's what I do, after all, so I'd add this to the list. But since they were all concern and rush-rush with me from the start, I assumed we would continue on that course. It's fun to assume things.

Instead, when I called the radiologist's office two days later, I received an incredulous "What? Of course the results aren't in yet." Then I was told to call back in a few hours. Once again, I was met with incredulity. Two days! Do I think I'm the Queen? The Queen of New York? "Call back Monday, that's when they'll be in," I was told. I couldn't believe I would now have to wait an entire weekend. Ha, ha! I was so cute, back then.

On Monday, the same woman who assured me the results would be in on Monday was amazed I would think they'd be in on Monday. "It's Christmas Eve! The lab's not even open." Call back Wednesday, she said. Because duh.

I bet you can guess what she said on Wednesday. And on that day, my friends, on that day I said to myself, "I will not be calling this office ever again. I now hate this person, and I don't want to hate someone, so I will turn my attention solely to my GP." Oh, because also, after the fifth phone call, the woman at the radiologist's finally told me that no one but my GP could give me the results anyway, so really there was no reason to call her. This is the same woman who was standing right there as Dr. Grandpa lovingly squeezed my shoulder and assured me I'd wait but 48 hours, at the most. She didn't roll her eyes even a little when he said that, and I LOOKED.

My GP continues to take my calls and emails, but she's not getting answers either, and today I couldn't stand it anymore so I called the radiologist's, again. My hate had receded, and I thought, maybe in 2013 the lady who answers the phone will be nicer. Maybe she'll tell me whom to harass at the lab. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.
"Hi, it's Alice again. Alice Bradley," I said, chuckling (why chuckling?). "Still waiting on those biopsy results, as you know." Chuckle, chuckle. Oh, me.
"They're not in yet," she said.
"Wow," I said. "This is getting nuts." Mildly, though. She could hold my results hostage, after all, so I'm trying to stay on her good side. I mean, if she has one.
And, then, my friends, she hung up. On me? Or just because she was done? I'll never know.

And, look, I sympathize. A little. She's not in control of when the lab results come in. But she should sympathize too, no? A little.

An absolutely nonsensical post about eyeballs

I keep absentmindedly rubbing the inside of my eye. Not the INSIDE, it's not like I'm rooting around in my optic nerve. I mean the part around the tear duct. Probably I mean "the tear duct." This move then activates mysterious Itch Receptors all around the inside rims of my eyelids and subsequently I want to spend the rest of the day scratching at my eye-coverings with a shrimp fork. What kind of fucked-up god or Science Devil decided this was a good plan, to make the tear-duct area so exquisitely sensitive to any kind of rubbing/scratching/poking? All it takes is the least pressure with my finger or knuckle or dog nose and then JUST LIKE THAT mascara is running into my cleavage while I claw at my face. I can't remember if this happens all the time or it's some kind of allergy-related itchiness. Has it happened my whole life? My brain has cleared all the eye-scratching memories right out of my head. It's like there have been more important things!

I do clearly recall the time I scratched my cornea, because you don't forget a thing like that. I still maintain that my corneal scratch was more painful than childbirth. Certainly less rewarding. Absolutely nothing to show for it at the end. Except for an infection a couple of months later, which was just as painful and decidedly un-cute.

How did I scratch my cornea, you may be asking?  Here is the true answer I gave to every medical professional I dealt with that day: I poked myself in the eye. With my finger. The entire story is that I was trying to get something out of my eye when my cat startled me, but the cat detail didn't seem important. I can't blame the cat for this genius move. The fact is, when your finger is already resting against your eyeball, you should concentrate. And really, what could the cat have been doing that was really so alarming? I can't even remember. This was a cat we had long ago. She's dead now, and cannot answer my questions. Even if she had leapt off the armoire and sailed past me like a flying squirrel I should have at least REMOVED MY FINGER before turning to see what she was up to.

This actually looks like something my old cat could have done. She was kind of flappy.

Speaking of eyes, which it appears I am doing, my sister tore her retina a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't anything she did or (fortunately) anything I did (I would really hate to have injured someone else's eye with my wayward fingers); apparently this can just…happen. Bodies! They are totally fucked.

She had to have emergency futuristic laser-cat surgery (except without cats) and then, you guys, THEN. Then she was instructed to not move her eyes for a week.  A WEEK. I still cannot get over this. The period has already come and gone and I am still talking about it to anyone who will listen. No eye movement for a week! She could not: read, email, Internet-browse, cook, use a phone, or take a walk. All she could do was watch television (from a distance), and, I guess, stare into space. Probably she could also bathe. BUT NO READING THE SHAMPOO BOTTLE. No reading! At all! Do you know how much daytime television she had to watch? How many Dove commercials about the perils of discolored armpits? Do you think this caused permanent emotional scarring because I DO. It scarred me, and I only had to hear about it.

I called Liz a few days into her no-eye-moving trial and I was like WAIT A MINUTE WHAT ABOUT RAPID EYE-MOVEMENT. How do you control your dreams, Liz?! And then she had to explain to me that the goal was to minimize movement as much as possible, that of course some movement was inevitable, and I breathed into a paper bag and we were both okay.

And then my eye started itching again.  I wasn't going to call her back to update her on this itching situation. But then I realized she had nothing better to do than to listen to my problems, and anyway she shouldn't watch that much Kathie Lee and Hoda. And the moral of this story is that I am a really, really good sister.

One more foot-themed entry! Last one!

I am in love with all of you, and your bristly squirrel toes. (Squirrel? I don't know, I just wanted something that wasn't "hobbit.") You are terrific. Come here please and sit on my lap.

I feel like I want to confess more things now, but that's pretty much all I have. That's my darkest secret. Hairy toes. Okay, maybe I have some olde-timey skeletons rattling around in my closet, but as for current habits that I find more or less embarrassing, shaving my toes is right up there.

All this toe-talk is reminding me of an anecdote I promised to share with you months ago. I am always doing this. The moment I write "I swear that I will soon tell you this funny thing!" I then lose all desire to write it. I immediately lapse into sulky adolescent mode, like you're all my MOM and you keep telling me WHAT TO DO. Quit it! You're not the boss of me! I got this new Gang of Four cassette and I'm going to turn it up super loud!

I wrote previously that this story involved hitting myself with a hammer, and then after I published the post I realized it wasn't a hammer at all and I wrote "hammer" when I meant something else entirely. It was a dictionary. I have a very very specific neurological condition wherein I switch "dictionary" and "hammer." This makes for some confusing times at the library, I'll tell you what!

(Does anyone go to the library to look at a dictionary? I mean, even before the Internet?)

Actually I do know why I said "hammer," and it will soon become clear! Get ready!

This event occurred a while ago, before Henry was around, or Charlie, even;  I was living with Scott, as we have been together since the dawn of time. One day I woke up to find this hard lump on the top of my foot. It was as if it just popped up while I was sleeping, and oh it rubbed against my Doc Martens (early '90s!) and really put a damper on my fun times as a young editrix in Manhattan's glamorous glimmering midtown.

I tried thicker socks and looser shoes, but it was still pretty uncomfortable. Because I am me, I assumed I had some kind of rare foot-based cancer. I cried some, while staring out the window, thinking about everyone who would miss me. I didn't go to a doctor, of course; instead I called all my friends about it, usually while I was at work. One friend took it upon herself to find a diagnosis, and it happened that she worked in an office that also had a nurse in it. I'm really not clear on what she was doing. Some kind of insurance work? Maybe the woman was a former nurse? MAYBE MY FRIEND WAS A DOCTOR? At any rate there was an R.N. in her office, and she consulted the nurse lady, who said it sounded like a ganglion cyst.

I had never heard of that and I figured it was another word for "horrible lump-based giver of death." But she went on to explain that it's a harmless growth that's actually filled with fluid, even though it seems hard.

The thing to do, she told me, was to smash it. Hit it really hard with something heavy, she promised, and it would burst and go away. She instructed me to hit it with a big book, like a dictionary, or (you guessed it) a hammer.

I do not generally leap at the chance to abuse myself with heavy things, but I was assured (BY A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL) that whacking myself in this way would be relatively painless and anyway a small price to pay for the ability to wear Doc Martens again.  And what if it did hurt? I was already mildly uncomfortable all the time, and maybe that mild discomfort was worse to bear than one moment of extreme ouchiness?

After a pep talk administered by my friend and her nurse-pal, I arrived home from work determined to beat the shit out of my foot until this thing was gone. "One good whack should do it," I was instructed, but I'd go for forty if I had to.

Scott was not yet home, which was unfortunate, because if he had been there he would have gently removed the book from my hands. Then again he might have beaten up my foot himself, if I asked. He's awfully accommodating.

I went into our living room and fetched our heaviest book, which happened to be a dictionary. (Related: remember owning dictionaries? Oh, the past!) I mean, it wasn't the OED, but it was pretty damn hefty. I removed my shoes and socks, and then I brought that dictionary down on my foot, hard.

It hurt.

I checked the lump. Still there.

I brought it down again. Rechecked: still there. And again. By now I was panting a little. Again, no change in the lump. I went on like this for a while. I whomped my foot with this dictionary--harder than a reasonable person should really hit themselves with things--determined, as I was, to pop this cyst.

Finally, I lay on the ground, panting and sweating. I looked at my foot, and the cyst was gone. GONE! Success! I had probably shattered my foot, but at least I wouldn't have to deal with that lump!

Then I tenderly prodded the top of my foot, and there it was, just as hard and knobby as it had been before my assault. I just couldn't see it because the rest of my foot had swelled up around it.

And that is pretty much the end of my story. I still have that damned lump. My friend's nurse friend suggested I try again (WITH A HAMMER) so I called the police on her. (Wouldn't that be great, if you could call the police on anyone who gave you terrible awful advice? And who was this nurse person, giving advice to total strangers? I have real-life doctor friends who wouldn't give me advice if their lives depended on it. They're all CALL YOUR DOCTOR I CAN'T MAKE A DIAGNOSIS OVER THE PHONE before I'm done saying hello. They know me so well.)

You might notice, if you check the Wikipedia entry I linked to above, that it mentions NOT TO HIT A GANGLION CYST BECAUSE HITTING IT DOES NOT WORK. Oh, Wikipedia, I needed you back then.

I don't notice my lumpen left foot these days because I very rarely wear shoes that are anything like Doc Martens, i.e. hard-topped lace-up type shoes. I actually did buy a pair of Oxfords a while back and then I gave up because of my horrible disfigurement. I can wear all kinds of other shoes, though! I'm a normal person just like you or you!

What I couldn't get over for the longest time is how very hard I was willing to hit myself because I thought it was a good idea. The hardest part was giving up, frankly. I wanted to keep going. I think I only stopped because Scott got home and took the dictionary away from me forever and ever. And then he put the dictionary online so I wouldn't be a danger to myself any longer. He is so very good to me.