I was driving home from the Oncology Aromatherapy class last night and thinkin': Hey look at me. Out late on a school night.
Around 3:00 this afternoon? Pow.
I saw a picture of myself shot from above. This is P's new thing. Shooting out the window as I leave for work. I looked like a human crescent roll-so weak looking and my hair was the color of butterscotch.
Yesterday afternoon, I went back to the scene of my last hairtastrophy and and had some slices of lightest brown tossed into the mix.
It's a little ridiculous color-wise but what I never wanted to look like was everybody else.
I also signed up for a learn to row demo class eventho it seems to be pitched towards those breast cancer girls who get everything. They do, they do, they absolutely do.
Lost: One Groove. Reward if found.
I lost my marbles when I got home last night. It was after having been at this class to learn aromatherapy treatments-I guess-for people with cancer.
I have huge interest in this because places I have worked massaging sell aromatherapy as an add on and I just don't know enough about it to trust that it's safe. This class didn't end up addressing cancer treatments yet. This was the part one and it was all about safety and how different oils are identified and the feeling of ants regarding peppermint and things like that.
She had a couple of stories about how she was seeing big improvements in her patients with peripheral neuropathy and I thought hey cool. One of my first cancer massage clients-a long time ago-wanted me to go into her feet with my hands and demolish the shit out of them so as to encourage healing.
I don't hurt people. That's not my thing.
Then there was a slide about another oil that was supposed to shrink tumors. And the woman said,"I mean, why not, right? What have you got to lose?"
And then later later later I got to thinking about these classes I've sat in on at this cancer wellness place and were they not all quite possibly sales pitches for something? Selling hope to the hopeless? Maybe?
(Maybe I should have a class called :This is All Bullshit. Go Out And Look At The Sky. )
I got home, opened my email and was treated to a photo of the newly bald Kathy Griffin. She's shaved her head in solidarity with one of her cancered siblings.
What a load of crap. Honestly, some of this cancer stuff f-ing floors me.
Yesterday. Doctors Appt. 9:15.
First of all, you should know that I love this guy. My Mother also suffered from Doctor Love. (She also had White Coat Syndrome. I do not.) I cannot explain it but this guy? We do the handshake thang and I already feel better. Go figya.
I have my laundry list. You ready? I ask.
1. Do I have cancer?
You should have seen his face. He was like, uhhhWhAt? But no-we were all business. And I said, yeah I know everyone has cancer cells and all, but am I done for now? Are you still being treated for anything he asked? Nope, said me.
The answer is no.
Crossed that out.
2. Can you interpret the findings of the cat scan?
Okay he says, big deep breath. The problem is that everyone is getting too much information and they don't know what to do with it. See that painting behind me? If I asked you to describe it, you'd say it's a yellow house. But if I asked a radiologist to describe it, they'd say, in the upper left hand corner there's blue sky and then there's a white cloud and then theres...and on and on.
The important part of the catscan report was one paragraph and he seemed to think that it didn't-uhh uhhh uhhh/what's the word-diagnose cirrhosis.
So he says, it would be a good idea to see a specialist.
3. Referral to liver doctor.
We talked about the different doctors and their personalities. They're all very good but this one is very academic. And this one doesn't like a lot of questions and this one is a goofball.
Stop, I said. That's the one for me.
Please never shove one of these into my orifcies.
4. The hematologist situation.
Do I switch now? Or wait? Or what? And he said, it depends on how you feel about the interaction. And I said, I don't care. I just want the information. He said, people switch doctors all the time.
He gave me names of other hematologists and one of them is starred as well.
This is blurry but doesn't it look like a surfer? It's his drawing of my liver
and the blocked portal vein and the other little veins that grew in to replace it.
Newsflash: Your body? Wants to live.
Newsflash: Your body? Wants to live.
5. Parking Form.
The GREATEST TRAGEDY of this surgery is that I lost my parking space. In the mix up of surgery dates and paperwork and everything? I set the payment envelope aside and forgot about it and like in an instant-I'm not kidding-somebody took the spot that I've had and been paying for-for probably like over 10 years.
No-one to blame but myself. Oh and the horrendous and unfair parking system of my town. Them too.
6-7. Back to work forms.
8. Rowing. Can I? I have to ask the surgeon.
9. Iron yes. Avoid tylenol.
10. Beach-he said it's not the water that's a problem, it's what in the water. Hold off for now.
The appointment lasted 45 minutes and I felt so much better.
3:15 was the Ultrasound with a bagel chaser because the artist who did the Einsteins Bagel art taught at my school. I was supposed to have to wait because they were running late but 5 minutes later I was on the table. Nice tech. Let me watch the screen and ask questions. Done.
Not sure what time, phone rang. It was the hematologist with the results of the test. The blood clot is what they call 'chronic' and what that means is that it didn't get bigger but it didn't go away. Stay on the same meds. Okay said me. Thank you. Goodbye.