Here is what I know today.
First, I need wound care. This surgical incision–still bleeding after two weeks–isn’t healing properly. I’m looking forward to getting that out of the way.
After this wound clears up, my future holds a few more medical adventures.
I’ll be tested for Marfan Syndrome. I’ve been suspected before of having this, but now I’ll be properly tested. My mother died at 45 of an aortic aneurysm, and I’m 44. So. Seems I should have my heart checked. If I do test positive, my son will have to be tested as well. That’s the most worrisome thing of this whole mess. And we will both have a lifetime of echocardiograms.
And I’ve got this stage one invasive cancer that apparently is fairly common in women over 60. Women my age aren’t supposed to have it. Because of my, ahem, unusually dense breasts, regular mammograms won’t detect future cancerous growths. I’ve got a lot of MRIs to add to this lifetime.
More immediately, I’ll be having five to six weeks of daily radiation. I’m sure some of you out there have experienced that. I’ll find out what that’s like.
With luck and penny-pinching, we’ll be able to afford all this.
On one of the medical forms I filled out this morning, there was a question about my activities. I wrote that I taught and that I wrote. The oncologist asked me what I wrote. I told her I had a novel coming out this year. She asked me a bit about it and said congratulations. A little while later, she was speaking about my case in a dictaphone type thing, and she said, “The patient is a teacher and a novelist.”
My heart did a little squee. The oncologist said I’m a novelist!
It must be true.
Funny how so many of us–maybe not you though–need to hear someone else say it to make it feel true.