This week was….long. Surgery can’t happen until there’s an answer for the “to what extent?” question. At the suggestion of my oncologist, two additional tests were performed.
On Tuesday, I went for genetic counseling and a blood test. Might not be covered by insurance. It can take 2 weeks for results to come back.
Friday morning I went for an MRI. A dazed-looking woman in the locker room shared that she’d just had an MRI biopsy. Did not know that was a thing. Did not realize this was foreshadowing.
I do not care for physical confinement. Never been a fan of krautrock. Face-down in a tiny tube for forty-five minutes pushed my limits considerably. After an initial panic attack, I dug in. Effective coping mechanisms included diaphragmatic breathing, giving Kraftwerk the benefit of the doubt, and creating elaborate narratives about how Andy Warhol and Edie Sedgwick secretly hated the avant-garde and retreated to the comforts of milk and gingham after long days at the Factory.
For the second half, a contrast agent was injected via IV. Through the earplugs I heard the sweet technician say, “You will feel cold. It will taste funny.” It was freezing and my mouth filled with metallic dirt. And then it was over and she said results would come back in 4-5 days. I went to work with smudged mascara and lines all over my face.
The doctor called a few hours later; I ducked out of a meeting to answer (anyone else noticing a trend here?). Suspicious-looking spots were sighted. Another biopsy will be performed. An MRI biopsy. I need to work on my breathing.