I can’t bear to recount the details. Suffice it to say that my day did not include balancing on my hands while in lotus, smoking pot, drinking hella quantities of wine, partaking in new life experiences that I will someday chalk up to a mid-life crisis, getting a paycheck reflecting a pay raise, reading or writing poetry, filing an order to show cause or getting hit on by a chick.
It did include Pasasana. And it did include a reference to my being “skinny”.
Unfortunately, the reference came from the medical tech performing what amounted to an emergency ultrasound on a palpable lymph node under my left (non-cancer-side) arm, discovered by my oncologist at my five-year check-up today.
“It’s NOT cancer,” Dr. H told me. “But let’s get an ultrasound just to rule anything out.”
Ah, the old “just to rule anything out” line. As far as I’m concerned it’s right up there with “It’s not you, it’s me”. In either case, it’s a helluva lot easier for you to say it than for me to hear it.
Anyway, turns out that “anything” was, in fact, ruled out. The sonogram showed that everythin was normal, and the lymph node wasn’t even enlarged. Hence, the “skinny” comment, as in, “Because you’re skinny, you might be able to feel a lymph node that wouldn’t otherwise be felt.”
Yeah, it turned out okay. But it’s not okay to realize that this will always be the way it is for me. You might hear “lymph node”, but I hear “cancer”, even if it’s not. I used my breath to keep myself calm, and while I was waiting for the Radiologist to come in and talk to me, I practically fell asleep on the table. Trouble is, the anxiety does have to go somewhere, right? I mean, it’s like matter. It doesn’t just disappear. It has to go somewhere. So, after riding out the terrible anxiety in the hospital today, I am left all jangly and irritable now.
Fucking cancer. What doesn’t kill you leaves you…mangled.