Hallelujah "nothing concerning"

I put that in the title because I hate it when you click on a link thinking you're going to get the number of minutes to cook unsoaked beans in the Instant Pot, and then you have to scroll through many paragraphs of how the blogger backpacked through Albania.

I want to thank all my kind friends who offered words of love and support on FB, in messages, in texts, and on the blog. I'm tremendously grateful for my community. 

And my goodness, I'm so relieved.

At Georgetown, at least from the entrance we use, you have to pass the Pope and photographs of other figures of historical import to get to appointments. The Pope gets his own sort of corner, though, which I think you can see.

I had to turn right at the Pope for surgery. I go straight past him for my regular appointments.

When I sat on the table the radiologist asked if I had any questions. I got all teary and was like, "Well, I guess what I want to know is if it's more cancer."

I don't even know what other question I'd have.

I said, "My tumor was behind my left nipple, and this little bump is under my left nipple."

So it's not an insane leap to imagine both implants removed and going through chemo and radiation.

These are actually possible scenarios with a recurrence.

This is not like envisioning sliding down the inflatable slide onto the life raft, imagining sharks circling just because you hit the kind of turbulence that makes pilots use their stern voice when they tell you to fasten your seat belts.

I told the radiologist that my surgeon thought maybe it was fat necrosis, and he said he couldn't say what it was, but the appearance was consistent with fat necrosis. 

Mostly we talked about the Hinkley Hilton, which he calls the Reagan Hilton (while I don't call anything the Reagan anything), and the Air Florida flight that crashed into the 14th Street bridge (and which, oddly enough, the dad of my friend Debbie had crossed just in time). We lived in the US the first time during both those events.

I also learned that he was born in Georgetown Hospital after his parents immigrated from mainland China. 

I don't know if I should capitalize mainland?

Basically, the radiologist said he saw "nothing concerning" and he had me sign a paper saying he'd given me this information. 

I don't recall having to sign a paper before, but to be honest with you, the other day I couldn't remember the word for dresser. I was talking to Nick and India and I said, "It's like a table with drawers that you put your clothes in."

So maybe I always sign a paper?

The radiologist told me to follow up with my surgeon, and then told me that she'd have ordered a biopsy if she were particularly concerned.

I found that extremely comforting.

So I texted my surgeon to say he found nothing concerning and wants me to follow up with her, and she hearted my message.

I don't know how I would fare with dating in the age of texting and emojis.

I had a flip phone (ooh, and also that wonderful Nokia brick, if any of you remember that) when I was doing all that Internet dating, which only partially explains realizing en route to meet a guy for a Match date that I couldn't remember his name. I had no time to go home and log into my computer. We hadn't talked on the phone.

Anyway, when I checked out I asked if I should make an appointment and they said she'd contact me once she'd seen the scans if she wants me to do anything further.

Phew.

And at least I know that I will see the oncologist in under three months and my surgeon in six, so that's helpful.

But for now, whatever this is is "nothing concerning" and I will take that. 

If I learned anything from Nicole last year, it is to dress up to feel better. So the photo above is what I wore this morning.

It's fall, which is not my favorite, because of course it is a precursor to winter. But at least it's sweater and boot weather, and I love both of those things.

I cannot take my antidepressant in conjunction with my aromatase inhibitor because for whatever reason, it makes my hips hurt like holy hell.

So I need to get out in the sunshine, and use my full spectrum light, and eat well, and exercise, and do all the mental healthcare things.

I know all these things, and I need to do them all consistently.

Yesterday, though, yesterday I ate an entire box of palmiers from Costco, and if you go to Costco, you know they sell everything in packs of five million.

Often when I'm stressed I just don't eat. 

But yesterday I ate one palmier after the other after the other while watching Love is Blind (which Nicole thought was a show about blind people). 

I never watch TV during the daytime. I did laundry concurrently to mitigate daytime TV guilt.

Some days are just like that.

I think despite going to yoga I was basically holding my breath for 10 days. And now I need a big cry. 

I used to cry almost every day. If I felt it welling but not coming out, I'd watch the English Patient. Back then, I had more time to commit to sobbing over a beautifully filmed three-hour romance tragedy. And I knew which scenes were my triggers, if I were short on time.

But I haven't watched it in over a decade. Could I just skip to where he's carrying her to the cave? Would that still work?

I'm so incredibly thankful to currently be in the position to be wondering about this, rather than making all the appointments and plans I was terrified I'd have to start making.

And that's where I am today.

The lump

When Jordan was little, and we couldn't find something, I'd say, "Jordan, where is it?"

I'd shrug my shoulders and put my hands in the air like I just didn't know.

He'd mirror the gesture, looking at me very earnestly. He'd shake his head, and say, "It's SOMEWHERE!"

Which is always true.

Ever since my surgery last September, I've had a checkup with oncology every three months, and with my breast surgeon every six months.

About 10 days ago I had my one-year check with my surgeon.

My last oncology checkup was in September, when I was in the throes of pneumonia, and that's what the oncologist was most concerned about.

I don't have scans, because I have practically no breast tissue. Basically, I get felt up every three months.

Nick took me to the oncology check because I wasn't strong enough to go by myself. Otherwise I'd have gone alone.

I told Nick I didn't need him to come to the appointment with my surgeon, because all the checkups so far have been very routine. 

Everything feels fine, you look good, see you next time.

But of course, everything is fine until it isn't.

Because at this check, my surgeon found a lump.

She immediately said she thought it was nothing to be concerned about. "Fat necrosis" was most likely what it was. Very common, not a big deal.

She was all, "I don't want you to get all anxious. This is going to be nothing."

But of course I started crying. I started listing the choices I made, saying I should've made different ones. 

No, she said. I did everything I should do.

We were at the downtown building rather than the hospital, and she sent me to the radiologist upstairs to see if they could fit me in, because she could then just run up and take a look.

They don't do breasts on Fridays. 

It took me a bit of time to get an appointment. In the meantime, I've googled.

Fat necrosis is common after trauma like surgery. Fat cells die from lack of blood supply. They make a lump.

This makes a lot of sense.

But of course, I've catastrophized. I'm a catastrophizer.

And I work fast.

Way back in my singleness I'd go on first dates and by the time we'd had a glass of wine I'd mentally have married and divorced the guy.

So.

First thing Wendesday morning, I'm going for a scan.

It's either something, or it's nothing. 

I mean, it's something. 

It's just either something no big deal, tantamount to nothing, or it's a really big deal.