Although it is true that in the immortal words of Rob Base, it takes two to make a thing go right.

Ever since I got my breast cancer diagnosis, I keep thinking of Ralph Macchio in My Cousin Vinny. 

"I shot the clerk? I shot the clerk?"

I mean, it's been 13 days since the radiologist told me I have breast cancer.

He walked through the details with Nick and me. The oncology addendum gives specific details of said cancer. 

I've now met with two breast surgeons and a plastic surgeon. I've had an MRI.

Still, regularly, I am all, "I have breast cancer?"

Today I turned to Maude all, "Can you fucking believe I have cancer?"

I shot the clerk? 

I already had the practice of going into Rock Creek Park with the kids and yelling. We started doing this in Covid. 

I need to take Maude so we can have a big bellow-fest.

Yesterday morning I asked Nick what he thought I should wear for my breast surgeon consultations.

I did this because when he has something important, I'm always all, "What are you going to wear?"

And he always says something like, "A suit. And a shirt. A tie. And shoes."

So I asked, and he was like, "Something breezy."

I love it when he plays along.

Also: Georgetown breast cancer center gives you a lovely waffle-fabric robe to put on.

Also also: when I told the surgeon about the T-Rex arms post-surgery, she was like, "We most certainly do NOT want you completely immobile! You can get frozen shoulder!"

Which I said was a relief, because I'd been worrying that maybe I wouldn't be able to wipe my own bottom.

She assured me this would not be the case.

Today I had an MRI. My doctor ordered it September 1, the day after I got my diagnosis, and I made the appointment that very day.

So, 12 days ago. And still, as of right before my appointment, my insurance hadn't approved it.

Because, they said, they'd only gotten the request yesterday, and they need 72 hours to review and approve. So they might not cover it.

I didn't ask them why they're a relentless bag of dicks. 

I know why. In America, the only entity that benefits from our private health insurance industry is the health insurance industry.

But I wasn't going to not get the MRI, because it's fucking cancer. And it's the next piece of information my surgeon needs.

So I put it on the credit card, and hopefully they'll reimburse us.

Health care professionals keep telling me to lower my stress level, relax, etc. Everyone except the insurance industry, which is like, let's ratchet up your anxiety at a vulnerable time.

I was nervous about the MRI and also really wondering what would happen, because they said I couldn't eat or drink anything for two hours ahead. Nothing. No water, nothing.

And I was like, they're not putting me under, are they? They'd have said.

But then the morning was hectic and Maude and I rushed from the plastic surgery consult to the MRI appointment and I wouldn't have had time to ingest anything in the two hour window anyway.

I will have to blog about the plastic surgeon appointment. Maybe tomorrow. 

He let me take an implant sample home. It's quite soothing.

At the MRI place they asked me in the paperwork and then again in person if I was claustrophobic and I said no. 

But they asked so many times that I was like, AM I?

Kind of like when you say a word over and over and then you're like, is that even a real word?

Maybe I'm claustrophobic? (I shot the clerk?)

Reader, I am not.

The tech running the machine was lovely, and truly, the whole thing was easy.

The only thing I regret was the music.

Despite the provided earplugs and noise muting headphones, there was still a tremendous amount of noise.

I didn't realize it would be like this.

She asked if I would like some music, and gave me a choice, and I immediately thought of my go-to and said, "How about 80s?" 

But then I was face down, boobs dangling in this big space tube with the clanking and clonking of the machine.

And layered on top was, "I wanna rock right now! I'm Rob Base and I came to get down!"

So if you have to do this, I might go for soothing classical.

I shot the clerk?