5 June, 2001: On Pins and Needles
Well, needles, at least.
I had my biopsy this morning and, while it falls way down my list of Bad Things™, it's not an activity in which I'd care to participate on a regular basis. True, the needles themselves weren't diameter of a coffee stirrer, as one of my 'friends' had claimed, but there's a bit of fishing around; by the 5th and 6th samples, I was pretty tightly clenched, all the way 'round.
No lasting ill effects to report, though, unless you count feeling rather sore. On the other hand, neither do I have any results to report. The samples had to be sent off, and I won't know anything for 7 days or so (at which point I'm liable to be sitting on a county court jury, listening to some genetic fluke's lawyer try to convince us that there should be 'do not swallow' stickers on Nerf™ balls).
18 June, 2001: The 99th Percentile
So much for statistically minute probabilities. I just heard from my endocrinologist, who informs me that my biopsy shows I have papillary thyroid cancer. As I type this, I'm not really sure what I'm feeling about this news, which suggests I'm probably in shock. Certainly, I'm not inclined to joke about my situation any more.
According to the doctor, this is "the very best sort of cancer to have", but you'll understand if I refrain from turning cartwheels down the hallways. He says the drill will be to check me into the hospital, where my thyroid will be removed. I'll spend the night there and then, barring any complications, check out the next day. They'll dose me with radioactive iodine to kill off any of the thyroid that they didn't remove, and if all goes well the only reminder of the ordeal will be a 2" scar and the medication I'll have to take for the rest of my life (which, of course, I would have had to take even if it hadn't turned out to be cancer).
Time for a good stiff drink. Or a dozen.
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